


Lycaon

by KaelsMiscellany



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Historical, Multi, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 75,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5120645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelsMiscellany/pseuds/KaelsMiscellany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well he was awake; for now he might as well remain so and see what the world could give him this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my newest Pydian endeavor!
> 
> As the title might suggest this is a Dracula inspired AU; while the general plot, and a few scenes, follows that story the plot is mostly my own.
> 
> New chapters will be every Saturday.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! I'd certainly love the reviews.

The voices of children awoke him without warning.

With a snarl he threw off the blankets and climbed out of bed, ignoring the plumes of dust his actions created. As he stormed out of the room he shed what few clothes he'd been wearing in his sleep and his body began to move and contort as he shifted.

The world came into crystal clarity as he stalked on all fours towards the children. Inhaling deeply he sorted through the scents of his fallow home; well at least the children hadn't set foot inside the manor itself.

He found them in the courtyard, three boys and a girl, throwing rocks at each other and shouting in some pretend war.

Slinking closer he rumbled a warning and the children fell dead silent eyes and scents growing in fear. Patiently he waited a little while longer, letting their fear start to turn into relief, before snarling and lunging. The children screamed and ran pell mell back towards the village.

It was easy to memorize the children's scents. He wasn't one to punish children for the errors of their elders, but tonight he'd make examples of one or two of their fathers, perhaps a grandparent too if they'd apparently grown lax enough that children felt no fear of his home.

Remaining in wolf form he threw his head back and howled, warning those who might remember of what was to come.

The moon broke through the clouds, it's waning gibbous shape illuminating him as he shifted back to man. Well he was awake; for now he might as well remain so and see what the world could give him this time. His stomach rumbled, reminding him it had been quite some time since he’d eaten.

An easterly wind brought him the scent of boar and he began hunting. He could deal with the humans later.


	2. Chapter 1

_A year and a half later..._

Jordan Parrish stood by the gangplank of the ship that would take him to Greece feeling equal parts excited and nervous. He'd been utterly surprised when Mr. Whittemore gave him the Dimitriou—even the name sounded strange to his staid British tongue—consultation; the fact the head of the firm trusted him with such a transaction made him feel the need to succeed more keenly than any other consultation he'd ever had before, and the fact it was for a foreign noble made it all seem that much more exotic than his usual work.

“Jordan!” His fiancee's voice pulled him from his thoughts and he turned and smiled at her, stunning as ever in a rich indigo dress.

“Miss Martin.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek, mindful of the ever watchful eye of her chaperone Ms. Walker. “So good of you to see me off.”

Lydia affectionately rolled her eyes. “While I'm quite put out that you're leaving me to the wedding preparations by myself for the next few months, that doesn't mean I'm not going to send you off without a farewell.” Her gaze turned canny for a moment. “Or a gift, or the demand that you return home safe. I would quite like not to be a widow before I even wed.”

His lips twitched, “Of course not dearest. And I will bring you back a few gifts of my own.”

She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small wrapped gift, holding it out to him. “Where are you haring off to again?”

“A steamer is hardly 'haring' dear. Mr. Dimitriou currently resides in Greece.”

“Greece,” he found himself glancing away quickly, trying to hide his interest in the way her mouth formed that name. “In Eastern Europe, correct?” Her question was phrased to make her look unintelligent, but Jordan knew the keen mind that resided in her head.

“Correct. On the peninsula of Peloponnese according to his correspondences.” He took the gift and unwrapped it, negligently tossing aside both the paper and the lid of the cardboard box. Inside, resting on a pad of cotton was a locket, simple and bold in it's etching of a forest which made it seem more masculine.

He glanced up at Lydia who gave a small nod. Returning his gaze to the locket he took it out and opened it; on one side was a photograph of Lydia, her hair tinted to show it's familiar red hue, and on the other was a small lock of said hair. His eyes returned sharply to Lydia. “Lydia...”

She smiled. “Now you will have a little part of me with you always dear.” The steamer's whistle blew. “Now it seems you're to be off.” After a quick glance around she pulled him down for a true, but brief kiss. “I expect packages from every port you call on love. And if one of them happens to be Venice than I wish for one of those gorgeous masks. Never forget to write as well.”

Jordan couldn't help but smile. “As always I can only bow to your wishes.”

“Flatterer,” she chided before turning and taking the few steps over to Ms. Walker.

With a small sigh he boarded the ship, tucking the locket into his jacket pocket—he would don it later when he stopped in his cabin. Once on deck he turned and waved to Lydia, the excitement and nerves from earlier returning; this would be his first time out of England and he had no idea what to expect.

-

_Dearest Lydia,_

Ya su/ Khaíre _from Peloponnese. I say 'hello' twice because there seems to be a bit of an row over whether or not to stay with the current Greek tongue or return to the more 'noble' tongue of Ancient Greece. I have been slowly learning some Demotic, the current tongue, as we traveled so I will hopefully not get too lost in the wilds of the peninsula's mountains, but perhaps I should have gotten you to teach me Ancient Greek instead!_

_We arrived safely in Pilos this morning, the weather here in April is much warmer than I expected it to be, thankfully you insisted I pack my linen suits so at least I will not make a disgusting fool of myself by being covered in sweat. Despite having arrived it seems I still have much traveling to do, Mr. Dimitriou resides further inland so I must take a coach—oh how I miss trains!—to Tripoli and then yet another carriage deep into the mountains to a village I do not believe has a name._

_Despite the bustle of Pilos according to the men on the docks many have left to find better lives for themselves in the rest of Europe and further afield in America. It adds a desolate quality to the landscape which is very mountainous and bare. A far cry from the Arcadian wilderness praised in all those poems and stories._

_I pray that my gifts arrived safely and that you appreciate them._

_Hopefully I shall be able to continue writing to you at Mr. Dimitriou's home, and provide an address to which you may reply, but if not I love you as always and hope to be home soon._

_Forever yours,_

_Jordan Parrish_

-

“Wait!” Jordan shouted at the retreating cart, but it was useless; the silly superstitious peasant refused to wait and see if he made it safely inside. With a sigh and angry mutter he collected his scattered luggage and hauled it to the imposing front doors. Thankfully there was a bell pull and he yanked on it, more harshly than it deserved.

As he waited for a possible response he looked around. The courtyard, bathed in hellish light from the currently setting sun, looked bleak and unkempt; which Jordan had expected thanks to Mr. Dimitriou's letters—apparently he had been away for quite some time caring for a sickly relative. It's state probably wasn't helped by the nature of the peasants in the village below, whispering about giant man eating wolves and curses from the gods.

Though he wasn't discounting their talk of wolves considering the howls he'd heard while traveling to the village; though he highly doubted any of the wolves in Greece would actually attack a man, especially if he happened to be armed with a gun.

Pertaining to the manor itself, it looked in poor condition: part of a tower had collapsed long ago and Jordan didn't see light coming from any of the windows. Overall it brought about a feeling of decay and disuse, of things left long mouldering and to rot.

The sun sunk beneath the mountains, plunging the whole area into dimness. Starting to feel annoyed, he would much rather not hike all the way back down to the village in the darkness, he reached for the bell pull again.

But before he could tug it the door opened, revealing a young sickly man in a perfect suit. “Hello?”

It took Jordan a moment to compose himself. “Hello.” He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out one of his business cards. “I'm Jordan Parrish with Whittemore, Perkins, and Hoake.”

The young man, blond and about Jordan's own height, blinked slowly and took the card, “ah, yes, the solicitor.” For a brief second Jordan felt like he was a side of beef being inspected. “My master's been expecting you. This way. Leave your bags, I shall bring them in later.”

Slightly relieved by that Jordan nodded and entered, inside the manor looked only a little better than outside: the walls were covered in art and tapestries, acting as a sort of insulation, although the manor still felt chilly; they had a good layer of dust on them too, which made them appear shabby.

The butler, or maybe he was a footman, noticed Jordan's staring as they moved deeper into the manor. As they walked something nagged at Jordan over the other man's appearance; somehow he knew this man, though he couldn't place him. “It's just the master and I here, none of the villagers will come up to the grounds even,” he offered, as if in explanation, startling Jordan out of this thoughts. Though it made sense that if you couldn't get any servants up to do the work, none of the work would get done.

“In here sir.” The butler opened a carved pair of doors, revealing a room that stood in stark contrast to everything else he'd seen so far.

A large fire roared merrily in the fireplace casting flickering light everywhere, though it was washed out by a goodly number of torches and candles scattered about lighting up the room more evenly. In front of the fireplace was a well set table covered generously with food, as he stepped towards it Jordan's eyes glanced around at the walls. They too had art and tapestries on them, though these ones had clearly been cleaned, all depicting scenes of hunting in one form or another.

“I do hope you are hungry.” A man's voice, rich and resonant, spoke, startling Jordan.

His eyes darted trying to find the speaker, and blinking in surprise when he noticed him standing behind one of the chairs, a spot Jordan would have sworn was empty when he'd come in. The man now standing there was striking in appearance: not as tall as Jordan, but he had more muscle than Jordan had ever seen before on a nobleman, with neatly trimmed dark brown hair and goatee, and piercing blue eyes. His whole physical appearance felt frightfully _alive_ , as if he contained more vitality within him than anyone else. Overall Jordan knew nothing of fashion—one of Lydia's favorite laments—but even he could tell that the man's suit, while well fitting and elegant, didn't suit the times.

But he was forgetting his manners. “I am quite hungry thank you, the inn at the village wouldn't serve me after I told them where I was going.”

The man smiled, showing good teeth. “Excellent, Aristides prepared quite the feast and I would hate to see it gone to waste.” The man stepped out from behind the chair and sketched a bow. “I am Peter Dimitriou,” he straightened and held out his hand. “And you are?”

Hurriedly Jordan reached out and took Mr. Dimitriou's hand. “Jordan Parrish sir, from Whittemore, Perkins, and Hoake.” Mr. Dimitriou's hand was well calloused and his grip was firm as they shook.

“Ah yes, for my new residences. Good. But first we shall eat.” Mr. Dimitriou gestured at the other chair. “I hope you do not mind serving yourself, Aristides is preparing your room at the moment.”

In the face of Jordan's hunger that hardly seemed a problem. “No, I do not mind at all.”

Mr. Dimitriou sat and once again gestured at the other chair, reminding Jordan he was just standing there like a fool. Mr. Dimitriou's lips twitched in a smile as he reached out and grabbed the ladle leaning against the side of a soup tureen. “So, Jordan, tell me of London. I must confess it has been quite some time since I've had true social interaction, so I apologize if I ask more questions than is seemly.”

“A sickly relative right?” grabbing his fork and knife Jordan used them to grab a stake. “To be honest Mr. Dimitriou–”

“Please call me Peter,” Jordan didn't know why but he found himself mesmerized by Mr. Dimitriou, _Peter's_ , movements as he served himself soup, spilling nary a drop.

“Peter, then. As I was saying if you wish to truly know about London society I might not be the best man to ask, I enjoy it well enough but it's my fiancée who truly knows everything.” The stake had been cooked rarer than Jordan usually preferred but was delicious none the less.

The other man finished his spoon of soup, “you are engaged? Felicitations. She must be a very happy woman.”

For some reason Peter's comment made Jordan flush a little. “Lydia wasn't happy that my work sent me out of the country so close to our wedding, but she understands. If I may be so bold, your command of English is very good.”

“Well, we shall endeavor to finish our work quickly then.” He smiled. “My skill with English is my mother's doing, she insisted I learn many tongues; if the situation ever arises you'll find I speak good French, German, and Russian as well as my mother tongue and Hungarian. Come let us eat, and then we may begin the drudgery. Would you like something to drink?” Peter stood and strode over to a side table where a bottle of wine sat. “I'll tell you now it's a local wine and probably lacking any sort of taste you are used to, still I'm fond of it.”

Jordan watched as Peter put in the corkscrew then sharply yanked it out creating a very loud pop. Not wanting to seem ungracious Jordan held out his glass. “I'll endeavor to try a little.”

Peter smiled again as he approached; there was something curious about his teeth, though Jordan couldn't see very clearly what exactly that might be. “A man after my own heart.” He tilted the bottle and poured a small amount into the glass. “If you wish for more let me know.” As Jordan raised his glass to his lips he found himself a little amazed at how kind Peter was being, Jordan felt certain he'd never meet a British aristocrat who would pour him wine and be nothing but understanding with his one servant.

Taking a sip Jordan found himself amazed at the taste, fruity and herbaceous, not at all what he expected. “This is much better than I expected.”

“Good. Now your fiancée?” Peter returned to his seat and poured himself a much fuller glass.

Jordan smiled. “I know every man says it, but she truly is the most beautiful woman in all the world. I didn't think I had a chance but I proposed anyways. Stunned me silly when she agreed, especially considering Mr. Whittemore's own son proposed to her six or so months ago. Everyone had thought he was going to try again after she refused him the first time, but then he seemed to vanish on his way to meet you and we haven't heard from him since.”

Another deliberately graceful spoon of soup. “I remember, your firm was most apologetic for his actions. But he was young and the young are foolish.” Peter’s gaze focused on him again. “Although she must not have been all that put out if she agreed to marry you.”

“Lydia's her own woman,” Jordan shrugged. “Vastly intelligent, though she often tries to hide it.”

Something in Peter's eyes sharpened and Jordan found himself shivering again. “I find it a shame society still thinks intelligent women are something to be feared. Your lovely Lydia shouldn't have to hide anything about herself.”

Taking another sip Jordan nodded vigorously. “She does write for journals and the like, but always under a pseudonym. Maybe soon she can truly take credit for her work, but for now she seems pleased with what she has.”

“I'll gladly drink to that.” Peter raised his glass and took a large sip, Jordan found himself doing the same.

-

_Dearest Lydia,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health and cheer, it's been a week since I last sent you a letter and I thought you should be appraised of what has happened since._

_Mr. Dimitriou, who insists I call him Peter, is a very clever man—dare I say he's probably almost as intelligent as you? Though I know you find my work sometimes boring this past week has been the most exciting I have ever had, and at this rate I feel we shall be done by next week, even with the two properties he is buying, and my next letter will gladly tell you that I will be headed home._

_Peter has insisted on meeting you soon after he arrives, and I find I have some reservations. Not because of the usual things men fear, but because I fear that you two will start conversing about some long ago world—or maybe in some long dead language—and you shall both leave me stupidly eating my soup. Though I should hope you wouldn't be so cruel as to ignore your own fiancé._

_The manor despite it's appearance when I first saw it is still quite together, my first night Peter asked if I wished to join him on his nightly walk across the parapet, and though I had my doubts I did so. Oh Lydia, I think even you would have been struck speechless by that view. I cannot recall the last time I saw so many stars, even with the moon bright and eye catching._

_This, coupled with the breathtaking view from my room has me recanting my earlier dismissal of the landscape, this is indeed the Arcadia of story. Peter tells me it is only this dry and barren because it is the advent of summer, had I arrived a few months ago this land would have been as verdant as any Eden._

_Despite all this I find myself troubled by dreams best not spoken of in letters, perhaps you shall pull them out of me after our marriage, but for now they are mine alone to suffer through._

_Because that previous statement will probably make you worry I shall tell you there is something strangely familiar about Aristides, Peter's singular servant; as if I have seen him before someplace, though not recently. I do not know much about him but I find myself surprised that he works for Peter, especially being a young man of about your age. Perhaps he was a servant among his father's, the sickly relation that explains Peter's long absence from his own manor, house and applied to work for Peter rather than being let go. Though if that is the case then I have no explanation as to how we might have met before._

_However I find that he tends to follow me and lurk about more than any servant should, and I find it sits ill with me. I intend to bring it up with Peter soon if it continues, perhaps he truly is just overeager to please someone other than his lord._

_I must confess dear, that I spoke of your hidden intelligence to Peter. Though like I he is of the mind that your gender and sex should be no bar to doing what you want, and because of that he wished for me to send you the attached book as an early wedding gift, he hopes you will enjoy it—considering you speak of this Lovelace woman with the same reverence as you do Leibniz and Newton I believe you shall. Even I find myself in amazement of his library and wish to spend some time in it._

_If you could send responses, sadly there is no post town and this letter and package comes to you by way of a goatherder's son going to Tripoli, I would ask how the preparations for the wedding are going. I do pray they are going smoothly however._

_Always Yours,_

_Jordan Parrish_

-

Jordan awoke with a start, heart pounding and his skin feeling feverish. He tossed off the heavy blankets and let the cool air of the room try to calm him down. Completely by accident his hand brushed against his chest, making his skin twitch and his cock jump. He forced himself to lie there and breath, but a few moments later he groaned. Laying there wasn't going to make this hard-on of his go away.

Turning onto his side he reached down, and buried his face in his pillow to try and muffle the ensuing whimper. He didn't find his actions shameful like most would, but they were damn embarrassing, especially considering his current state hadn't been caused by his fiancée as usual. No this time...and strange dread filled him as he recalled what he could of the dream.

_“Tell me Jordan,” Peter's voice is rough in his ear as calloused fingers trace designs upon his ribs. “Have you and your dear Lydia been intimate yet? Have you tasted that cunny of hers? Was it sweet beyond measure? Perhaps you've even rubbed bellies already?”_

_Jordan groans and arches, though whether to get away from Peter or encourage him he doesn't know, Peter's fingers moving inexorably lower. “No,” he somehow manages to gasp out._

_He feels Peter's nose brush against his hairline. “That's quite a shame, you're to be married after all, what's stopping you from enjoying her now? Unless you'd like someone there to walk you through it, to show you how to properly please her.” That rough hand grasps his cock firmly and moves up and down once, making Jordan whine piteously. “So many women find themselves disappointed in their husbands because the man doesn't know how to take proper care of them.” Soft lips press against his jaw. “You wouldn't want to disappoint Lydia would you?”_

Jordan grunted and felt his jism spill over his hand. A part of him began chastising him over being so sloppy, that he should have gotten up and done it over the chamber pot as before. It was done and worrying about it would drive him to an early grave as his mother had once told him. That didn't stop the lingering dread from roiling his stomach.

Sitting upright he reached for his pocket watch to check the time, though it was completely useless here since his watch only told him the time in London. While the hour was ungodly in London, he assumed it was a reasonable time to be up and about in Greece and so stood, setting his pocket watch down and picking up his locket; the whole of it felt freezing against his skin, like a brand in reverse, though he knew it only to be because of the temperature of the room and that it would soon warm to him.

He dressed quickly to ward off that chill and made his way through now familiar corridors to the 'inhabited' rooms, knowing Aristides had probably already laid out breakfast.

The room Jordan had come to think of as the dining room was indeed brightly lit as always and it's table laden with food. Besides the aroma of food there was the ever present smell of coffee—if Jordan hadn't known any better he would have thought Peter ran off the stuff, though where he got the beans when no one came up to the manor was beyond him—coming from the pot at Peter's elbow.

“Ah, good morning Jordan.” It was a neat trick of Peter's, how he managed to know who'd come into the room without even looking—in this case from what looked like the last section of documents they needed to go through with the sale.

“Good morning,” Jordan managed to get out relatively well, somehow not making a complete fool of himself; or give away any of the discomfort he found himself feeling. He sat in his customary seat and served himself sausage and some eggs. “Are those the last of the papers?” While he found himself enjoying his time in Greece, save perhaps for the dreams, he also found himself anticipating the return home.

Peter neatly stacked said papers into a pile and set them aside, taking a sip from his cup. “Indeed they are, however I thought perhaps instead of going through yet more mouldering parchment we might instead go visit some of the temple ruins nearby, they happen to be quite beautiful and I think them much more interesting than most you will see on the mainland.” He gave an elegant shrug. “I also know you desire to see your fiancée again, so I shall leave the decision up to you.”

As Jordan ate he thought it over, on the one hand the sooner they finished with the papers the sooner he could go home; on the other he found himself still full of the nervous energy brought about by the dreams. A, hopefully, light hike through the countryside felt like the perfect diversion. Anyways, he reasoned, it would only be a day. “Alright, let us go see these ruins of yours.”

The smile that broke over Peter's face had Jordan looking quickly into the fire. “Excellent.” Seconds later Jordan heard the ringing of the small servant's bell, though how Aristides would hear it as well Jordan didn't know. “We shall leave once Aristides makes a basket for us, the path is not so strenuous, but it will take us the better part of an hour to get there.”

Despite Jordan's misgivings Aristides soon appeared. “Yes master?”

“Prepare us a basket and plenty of water, we're out to the ruins.” Peter didn't look up from his action of putting the papers into a case with all the rest of the documents from the consultation. “I believe we shall be back later as well, so for dinner something that can keep would be best.”

Aristides bowed. “Of course master.”

“Make the basket light Aristides, too much weighty food will makes us indolent.” The look Peter gave Jordan with those words seemed laden with meanings Jordan would prefer not to notice. Some strange part of his mind suggested that Peter was sending him the dreams he suffered from; but he dismissed it as some Gothic fancy better suited to a tale of vampires and women in white than the real world.

Again Aristides bowed. “Yes sir. I will have it for you in an hour.”

Peter gave a small smile. “Good.” Aristides left and they were alone again. Though not for long because Peter stood and gave a short bow. “If you will excuse me I have some other work to do, I suggest you eat well for the walk down Jordan.”

Then Jordan was blessedly alone. Almost mechanically he ate, though the food. as always. was good. Once he'd filled himself he returned to his room to leave his jacket, it seemed pointless to wear it in such weather even if it wasn't proper.

He returned to the dining room and not finding Peter or Aristides there, though somehow all of breakfast had vanished, began heading towards the front door. Where indeed Peter awaited him, basket in hand and water skins over his shoulder. “Good, let us be off. It's earlier enough we shouldn't experience too much heat, but we shall still be cautious.” Jordan found he could only nod in response.

The walk to the ruins was pleasant, but bracing—the landscape getting more and more parched and dry however the further in they went—and Jordan found himself grateful for the amount of water Peter had insisted on bringing by the time they got there. His physical state however didn't stop him from admiring the ruins, though truly they were so well preserved that calling them ruins felt a disservice.

Pale stone columns rose up, framing a door surrounded by friezes reminiscent of those he had seen numerous times before in the British Museum though they were at a great enough distance away that he couldn't see the details. “This, this is...”

He turned slightly to see Peter giving him a full smile. “Beautiful yes? My family has never encouraged visitors to our land nor have we been all that soft on looters, so many of the ruins here are in excellent condition. If what my father told me is true, this was a temple to Demeter.” He glanced up at the sky. “Perhaps we'd best enter, to escape the heat.”

That was something Jordan found he could agree with and they quickly descended the shallow incline leading to the temple door. Standing in the doorway Jordan wished Lydia were here with them, she wouldn't want to leave until she had seen every inch of the place. His lips twitched as he examined the friezes he'd noticed earlier: from what he could see they were all of people and animals; though if pressed he wouldn't be able to identify any of them as specific beings.

“It's the story of Demeter,” Peter's voice sounded right in his ear and Jordan found himself starting in surprise. He whirled around to see Peter standing in the shadows right on the side of the door, his penetrating blue eyes seeming to glow.

He stepped back out a little and inspected the art at eye level, the work itself was placed vertical but that hardly mattered; the subject seemed to be that of a feast, the woman who seemed to be the focus of the piece, or at least Jordan assumed so given that she was sitting in the center, appeared to be eating ravenously while those around her stared in disgust. “Which part is this?”

Peter seemed far too close as he joined him. “The feast of Tantalus. Demeter was so bereaved by the loss of her daughter that she didn't realize Tantalus had served the gods human flesh.”

Jordan found himself shuddering. “That's horrible.”

The laugh he got startled him even more than Peter's closeness; it was the first time he'd heard the other man laugh and it did things to Jordan he would rather not contemplate further. “Despite what has been written about the idyls of Arcadia, we're a land of blood and flesh. Come, I do not know about you but I've become famished.”

They re-entered the temple, which just as Peter had promised was blessedly cool, shafts of light coming from worn holes in the roof illuminated most of the space—which looked austere and empty—and he followed Peter a little off to the side to a small raised dais, just the right height for sitting on. Peter's own words brought about an echoing hunger in Jordan and he found himself grateful of the finger food Peter started to produce from the basket, to top it all off was a bottle of clear liquid. “Ouzo,” Peter explained as he opened the bottle and filled the produced small glasses halfway.

Hoping he wasn't being too rude Jordan picked up a slice of bread and put on it some of the sliced cured meat he'd grown fond of. He blinked in surprise as he watched Peter pour into the glasses some water as well, turning the once clear beverage cloudy. One of the glasses was pro-offered and Jordan took it, though he wasn't sure if he should treat it like a whiskey or like his one experience with vodka.

The question was answered for him though when Peter downed his in one go. Jordan did the same and found himself taken aback by the strong anise taste, though he hardly found it unpleasant. “Does your cannibalistic goddess have anything to do with the giant man-eating wolves the villagers spoke of when I arrived?”

“Not exactly no.” Peter paused a few moments to eat a small tomato, his lips twitching. “Those stem from yet another legend specific to this region in fact. That of king Lycaon, who decided to test the gods and served them the flesh of his youngest son.” As he spoke he poured more ouzo into the glasses, cutting it once more with water. “Zeus discovered it right away and smote Lycaon and the rest of his sons, turning them into wolves who craved the flesh of men; the legend goes that if they could refrain from consuming flesh for nine years they would regain their human form again.”

Peter shrugged as he had a few of the olives. “Some did some did not, but the peasants believe that the wolves in the area are descended from those who couldn't resist human flesh and so have the same cravings as their ancestors.”

Perhaps because of the coolness of the temple combined with the gruesome tale Jordan shivered. “I hardly thought the myths here were so ghastly.”

He laughed again. “Ah, Jordan. The whole world was ghastly.” He drunk his second glass of ouzo, prompting Jordan do to the same.

They chatted for a while longer, finishing off all of the food, and most of the ouzo. Peter suggested they explore the insides of the temple which Jordan thought an excellent idea.

As they explored Jordan found himself once more wishing for Lydia to be there with him, to know how she would experience this wonder and revel in it. Reaching under his shirt he pulled out the locket and opened it, moving it as if to show the picture of Lydia inside the temple. It was not quite the same, but he didn't mind.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Peter watching him, though this wasn't the first time Peter'd seen the locket or Lydia's image inside, with a fond smile before giving his head a shake and walking over to one of the shafts of light. “Jordan, come here.”

Curiosity pricked at Jordan as he walked over. Though the closer he got the fewer questions he had. Somehow a rosebush had begun to grow here, and for a long while if the thickness of the branches was anything to go buy. Somehow it seemed to be getting enough water as well, perhaps there was a spring in the ground, for it was lushly green and covered in blooms the likes of which he'd never seen before: the outer sides of the petals were a creamy white, but those flowers in true bloom revealed that their inner halves were a deep, rich red. They smelled wonderfully pungent.

“I know this variety well,” Peter told him. “You should pick a few blossoms, they keep their color and scent long after you dry them.”

The suggestion touched Jordan, despite what horrid things his Id conjured in dreams Peter was nothing if not thoughtful and courteous. “You wouldn't happen to have shears or a knife would you?” He would rather not go at the thorny stems with his bare hands.

Peter went back to the remains of their light lunch and soon returned with a small knife. “Be careful, they tend to bite when you least expect it.”

Feeling suitably warned Jordan took the knife and approached; grasping the nearest blossom right where it met the stem he put the knife about a hands breadth down and began sawing. He felt at least one thorn dig into his palm, but he merely grimaced and finished harvesting the bloom, he broke off all the thorns before moving onto the second—he'd pluck at least five, perhaps more.

With each rose he found himself once more jabbed by thorns, though each time was easy to ignore. Finally he had his five and turned to Peter once more.

The man stood stock still in the same place he'd been when Jordan started. For the briefest of moment Jordan thought the other man's eyes were red. Peter blinked and strode towards him. “Your hand.”

Jordan looked down to see the hand that had suffered the most from the thorns was bleeding, if only a little. Still it made him feel woozy and he didn't fight Peter when he started moving him. In fact as they moved Jordan found himself starting to grow faint and slumped more into Peter's grasp before falling into a barely conscious state.

Dimly he could feel Peter scoop him up and lay him on a slab of stone. His hand gave easily as calloused fingers unmade his fist and the roses were removed from his hand. He slipped further into unconsciousness as his hand was raised and he felt something damp, warm, and slightly rough go over the wounds in his hand.

When he came fully back into conscious it was to find himself laying down, with something soft under his head. He felt better and raised the hand that had been injured to see that it had been wrapped with some cloth. Thinking he was up to it he sat upright, alerting Peter to his state.

“I fear I must apologize to you Jordan,” the other man sounded wretched, though Jordan could find no reason as to why. “Ouzo.” He gestured to the picnic basket, once more fully packed. “Is always served with food because it is deceptive in its contents. I had thought what we ate was enough, but it seems you were affected more than I thought, which is why you collapsed.” Reaching out Peter helped Jordan stand. “I think it best we return to the manor and get some more food into you.” He watched as Peter collected the roses and gently put them in the basket.

Jordan feeling docile let himself be lead. “I don't blame you Peter, nor will I allow you to tear yourself up about it, it has happened and cannot be changed, and now I know better.”

Peter said nothing as they began the trek back to the manor.

-

Later that night Jordan once more awoke, though this time the culprit was no dark dream. Seconds after he stood upright he once more heard the howling of wolves, far closer than he'd ever heard them before.

Feeling both hesitant and interested he rose and went over to the window. Enjoying the way the full moon lit the valley spread out before him, until snarling below pulled his attention down.

There in the courtyard were two, seemingly tailless wolves, fighting.

A moment of panic gripped Jordan, but then his hand throbbed strangely and he reasoned that the wolves wouldn't be able to get into the manor, nor leap the height to his window. So assured he remained and watched the wolves, one slightly darker than the other, as they fought.

The one which was slightly darker eventually got the upper hand and for a moment Jordan thought it'd snap the other wolf's neck, but it only gave a rough shake before the other wolf began whining and arching in clear submission.

The dark wolf let go and trotted around the other wolf, it's tailless state made even more apparent. “You cannot beat me pup.”

Jordan recoiled at the sound of a man's voice coming from the wolf, and one that sounded familiar at that. He pinched the skin of his elbow, only to twitch at the brief pain. Almost timidly he returned to the window to see the darker wolf still pacing around the lighter one, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “He is _mine_ , you cannot and shall not have him. If you hunger there are plenty of prey in the village below. Remember do not consume human flesh, not if you wish to keep yourself.” The wolf punctuated his statement with a snap of his teeth, before throwing his head back and howling.

A distance away the howl was answered and the wolf loped off into the darkness.

Trembling Jordan stepped back and towards his bed, trying to think of an explanation as to what he'd just seen and heard.

Perhaps the heat and the drink had gotten to him and he had hallucinated. That thought reassured him and he returned to bed.


	3. Interlude I

_Dear Lydia,_

_I know you find the worlds of ancient Rome and Greece deeply fascinating my dearest friend, but it seems mean spirited of you to stay behind in Bath while the rest of us return to London! I know you will balk at that chastisement, but it is the truth! I find myself longing for your dear Jordan's return as well, for he seems best at pulling you away from your studies, while I find I'm losing the trick of it._

_But I am not just writing to you to complain about your lack making London feel boring. I have a confession to make, one that to one such as yourself will probably seem droll, but to me it is a wretched fact._

_I have been proposed to twice this day. While I have turned down one and accepted the other I still find myself in agony! Oh it may be blasphemous, but I find myself wishing I could wed the both of them, to spare the one his current indignity, though it is true he accepted my refusal most graciously; proving himself a credit to his country._

_But which is which, you may be wondering (though perhaps you know, with a mind as clever as yours)._

_Let us begin with sweet Isaac, the American Scott and Stiles brought back with them (reading that makes him seems as if he's nothing more than a puppy, but I stand by those words) after a youthful trip to see more of the world._

_He came by the house soon after breakfast, looking a little nervous, but determined. And oh! What determination he had Lydia! "Allison, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" Right there, before my whole family (had my Aunt and Mother been of that disposition I though his words would have caused them to faint). The poor dear must have feared a loss of courage had he waited a moment longer._

_It may have been cruel of me, dearest Lydia, but I answered 'no', for while he has grown as dear to me as anyone since we were introduced he is not the one deepest in my heart. He took my refusal with grace and humor, though declined Father's invitation to stay and soon quit Beaudell._

_I thought that to be the end of my excitement for the day, but fate had other plans for me it seems. For not a few hours later, Scott presented himself at the house. Unlike Isaac he accepted Father’s invitation to join us at tea, and we had a most pleasant conversation. As tea came to a close Scott surprised us all, or perhaps only me, and proposed!_

_Perhaps it was inevitable that he do so. I know we have called each other our sweethearts and he is over quite often, endearing himself to my parents—who do not frown upon his work as a Veterinary Surgeon (though Grandfather will)—and in general being the bar by which all modern men should set themselves by—not including your own Parrish of course._

_Speaking of aspirations, perhaps you shall be glad to know that Stiles has completed his training and is now, in the eyes of Her Majesty, a Coroner. He seems quite pleased with himself, and has shown off his certificate—a truly massive thing at least 50 cm wide—a total of eighteen times since receiving it. See, I am began to turn into you with your lack!_

_For all our sakes I hope you tear yourself away from Bath soon enough and return to be with your friends in London._

_Yours dearly,_

_Allison_

-

_Dear Lydia,_

_Despite Allison—whom you know I love like a sister—telling you. I wished for you to hear it from my own, well, pen._

_So! On May 5, 18—, I, Melchior Stilinski, passed my final exam and became licensed to do the job of coroner in England and the greater British Empire._

_Scott is too head over heels with the fact that Allison agreed to his proposal to realize how momentous this occasion truly is. My father is proud enough, but probably glad that I’ve now finished my schooling. Everyone else in our circle is, of course, suitably awed by the idea._

_Come back to us Lydia! I’m sure my tales of dissection will be appreciated when you hear them (even if they do put you of pasties for a week). You can give Scott a sympathetic ear when it comes to wedding plans—though Isaac is putting up the bravest of fronts, poor man._

_As Always, Your Friend,_

_Stiles_

-

(A letter written in duplicate)

_Dearest Allison (Stiles),_

_You act as if I have gallivanted off to the continent to join Jordan on his trip, and not two hours away by train. I know it is because you are my friend and, thus, worry. It still can be vexing to receive a flood of letters all with the same message, when I am having the grandest of times here in Bath._

_Sadly the archaeologist will not let us tour the baths while they are working, but there is a promenade that has been set up around the perimeter, and I have taken to walking it each morning. You can view the work from the Pump House as well, but Ms. Walker has put her foot down on going there every afternoon for tea—she seems to fear I shall become a balloon if I partake too often of their delectable tea service._

_Allison, congratulations on becoming affianced. I wish you and Scott the best of luck, and would be more than happy to recommend you to all my own shops for your own needs, as they have been most solicitous and accommodating._

_(Stiles, congratulations on achieving your certificate. I’m sure you’ll do the Empire proud with your work and hope you find employ soon. While in a bookshop I found the attached book on poison identification and thought it would suit as a gift for you, hopefully it shall come to good use in your growing library.)_

_Jordan has written to say that he will be coming home soon. While I am glad he is rising in the company, I can’t help but feel relief at his coming home. Although I find myself curious about his client Mr. Dimitriou, who—according to Jordan—is a most agreeable fellow, and quite the learned, and open minded, man. I do hope Mr. Dimitriou will continue his acquaintance with Jordan when he arrives in London, and I find I hope he does well in this circle of ours._

_Before you leave to write another letter of complaint about my staying in Bath. I shall be returning on Thursday, I have a dress fitting that I cannot possibly miss, as well as an appointment with the priest over the ceremony itself. So you may cease your worry, and plan on calling on me soon, so I may tell you further about my trip._

_Your Eternal Friend,_

_Lydia_


	4. Chapter 2

While he had enjoyed his time here part of Jordan felt nothing but relief at the fact he would be beginning his journey home tomorrow. He'd already sent Lydia a letter a few days ago letting her know of his imminent arrival—though he felt certain it would only arrive a day or two before himself.

Until tomorrow though he had some time to himself and decided to spend it in Peter's library. While most of the books were in Greek, naturally, that didn't stop him from enjoying being there. Eventually he even found a book in English that looked moderately interesting and settled into one of the few uncovered couches to read.

During the course of which he must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew Peter was gently shaking him away. “Come there, Jordan. I'd thought, if you were amiable to it, we would partake in an old tradition of my people before you leave.”

Sitting upright Jordan rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I do hope it's not more alcohol.” After his experience with the ouzo last week he'd declined any beverage not water or coffee, though Peter had been more than understanding in that department.

“No,” Peter smiled. “I thought perhaps you would like to have the true experience of the baths.”

Jordan found himself momentarily confused; he had, of course, bathed often in the breathtaking chambers the manor had dedicated to it, but he had to be honest he didn't understand what half of those chambers were for when only one held tubs of any sort. He found himself curious enough to say yes. “Alright, but I hope you explain it all to me, so that I do not make some unforgivable faux-pas.”

“Have I ever?” There was something strange in Peter's tone as he turned and lead the way down into the wing that contained the baths. “I hope you do not mind, but I had Aristides set things up for us already.” When they reached the changing rooms—even to Jordan’s eye they looked like a newer addition to the rest of the baths—Peter gestured to one on the left of the main entry way. “You’ll find towels in there.”

Inside the small room, there was a candle for light, an alcove for his clothes and belongings, and the towels. As he stripped he found himself aware of his own body. Overall Jordan had preferred to bathe in the comfort of his own home, and not in a public bath, so bathing with someone else was a foreign idea to him. He also found himself wondering how comfortable he’d be with it after marriage, if it would be something he and Lydia did from time to time. He felt his blood heat at the thought.

Making sure his clothes, and more specifically his locket, were secure he took the largest towel and wrapped it around his waist, more than a little self conscious wearing only that for modesty. It wasn’t as if he had an extra pair of smalls with him to replace the ones that would get wet. Going through the main door Jordan stepped into the first chamber, hissing in surprise at the damp heat that seemed to hit his face like a wet towel; this certainly wasn’t like the last time he’d passed through it. It was also deuced hard to see in all the steam. “Peter?” He called out.

“Here.” Seconds after speaking Peter stepped out from the steam, looking much like Jordan thought the pagan deities of this country had looked like. Jordan stared over Peter's shoulder, starting a little when he felt the other man's hand grab his arm lightly—the now healed wounds from the rose thorns throbbing. “There is a bench over here that we may sit on.”

“How can you tell? This is as bad as London when all the factories are running.” He only meant it half in jest.

Even through the steam he could still somehow see Peter's enigmatic smile. “I've spent many years here Jordan, I've long since memorized it and could travel the whole length blindfold if I so chose.”

Jordan didn't speak again until after they had sat. “Does it truly need to be this steamy?” It seemed almost an opulent waste if he was being honest with himself.

Peter shrugged. “This was the intent yes. My many-times great-grandfather constructed the baths to please the our then Turkish overlords. Though they were highly displeased by the pool he also had built in the Greek fashion. The tubs you have been employing were installed by my father before he fell ill. We shall not remain here long before moving onto the next room.” He leaned back against a geometric mosaic. “This is only to prepare the body for the relaxation that is to come.”

He found himself mimicking Peter's actions, the steam and heat weren't so bad now that he had grown accustomed to it. Closing his eyes he softly exhaled, feeling that the steam truly was relaxing him.

Once more he was shaken awake; he chastised himself for being such a poor guest. Peter hardly seemed bothered however. “Come, to the hot room.”

Getting up he found himself groaning a little. “Isn't this hot enough?”

Peter just laughed.

True to it's name the hot room was indeed hot, seemingly even more so because of the lack of moisture in the air. They spent even less time here than they had the steam room, for which Jordan was grateful, moving on to the room Jordan was most familiar with.

A long, narrow pool took up most of the space, then a path leading onto another chamber, and against the other wall were partitioned tubs, allowing both privacy and ease of conversation. On instinct Jordan found himself heading towards his usual tub, but a splash behind him made him turn to see Peter coming up from below the pool...his towel lying on the tiled path.

He grinned up at Jordan like an errant schoolboy. “Come in, the water’s delightfully chilly.”

True, swimming naked was something Jordan had done quite often...as a child, but never as an adult. Standing there he watched as Peter cut through the water like a knife, his every movement sleek and precise. “Jordan?”

He gave a start at Peter’s voice. “Apologies, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I said if you truly wished to keep your modesty I would not hold it against you if you took a tub, it is your choice.” There was something... _strange_ about the cadence of Peter’s words, as if he was speaking them in another language yet Jordan heard it as English.

Making a split second decision Jordan went over to the pool, stripped off his damp towel and fell into the pool, water still sloshing everywhere as he surfaced. “Hells bells! It’s cold!”

Peter laughed, a merry light in his eyes. “I did warn you.” He swam back towards Jordan, but came up short, giving Jordan some space. “If we were doing this in _true_ Greek fashion we would have started here. Or only done this,” a sneer flashed across his face—the first time Jordan thought he’d ever seen Peter angry. “There were many in ancient times who thought warm bathing made one effeminate. But they are long dust, and we remain.” His expression shifted back into it’s usual pleasant visage.

Jordan watched as Peter once more dropped beneath the surface of the water, the other man swam past him, his hand brushing Jordan’s hip as he moved. It didn’t make Jordan twitch like he thought it would, instead he found himself moving to swim alongside Peter; although he kept his head above the water.

After a time he body grew used to the cool water and he found himself enjoying it as he and Peter swam brief laps. Soon enough Peter was pulling himself out of the water, revealing the most beautiful body Jordan had ever seen on a man—compared to all the ones Jordan’d seen in art. He found himself glad that Peter’s back was too him, otherwise he feared what the other man might see on his face.

“Come now, Jordan, we go now to the best part.” Peter bent down to grab a towel and Jordan quickly looked away, focusing on getting himself to the edge of the pool and climbing out himself.  He took the other towel and loosely wrapped it around himself, grateful that it hid all manner of things.

He followed after Peter, towards the door Jordan had never been through before. “There’s more?” He wasn’t sure he could take more.

“Just a little bit, but it will be well worth it.” Peter turned his head and gave Jordan a smile. “Trust me.”

Through the door was a small hallway that had a faint sulfurous smell to it, and was noticeably warmer than the room they’d just left; easily beginning to heat Jordan’s chilled body.

As they walked down it Peter began speaking again. “In here is the reason the house was built where it was.” They came out of the hall into a white tiled room, that had the same geometric pattern in it as they one in the first room they’d been in. Like that room it was steamy in here too, but of a different sort. In the ceiling there were two thin shafts, which must have opened up into the air, for the steam that rose up into it didn’t come back.

The true focus of the room was another pool of water, this one steaming and with a colorful floral tile around the edge.

“Our own personal hot spring,” Peter said, taking off his towel once more and slowly stepping in. “I suggest you”—Peter gave a soft hiss—“come in a little at a time, so you can adjust to the temperature.” Peter began moved away from where he’d stepped in, eventually settling against the far edge; his eyes on Jordan.

Something like nerves and excitement tangled in his belly as he stepped into the water, hissing just like Peter had as it contacted his still slightly chilly skin. The delicious heat began to sink in and Jordan found himself relaxing until he took another step.

Then the water was high enough that it lapped against the hem of his towel, so blushing—and hoping Peter couldn’t see it—he stripped off his own towel and continued deeper. While Peter’s gaze wasn’t on him, it still felt like he was being watched. It did...interesting things to his belly and his flush deepened when he realized what was happening with his cock.

Peter didn’t mention it, and soon enough his hard member was below the waterline; the heat seeping into it just as it did everything else—which made him bite his lip to keep from making a sound, because it felt much like he imagined being inside a women felt.

“Mmm,” Peter’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “I don’t care if the ancients were right, I would never pass this up for, well, _almost_ anything in the world.” The man’s head was tilted back, his eyes closed as he slouched against the far rim.

Jordan began settling in himself, pleased to find seats set into the pool. “There is something quite pleasant about it,” he agreed. “Thank you, for sharing it with me. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a hot spring before.”

Peter’s head turned, eyes opening so he could look at Jordan. “Is that so? Then I’m happy that I get to share the experience with you. I’ve spent many a fond hour here, letting the water relax me and thinking of little but what I believe I see in the steam.”

Now that he had mentioned it Jordan found that the steam did seem to shift and contort in familiar shapes. Inhaling—the steam seemed to clear his nose and heighten his senses—Jordan could smell the sulfur in the hot springs, but also something dusty, with the coppery tang of blood, and another tang as well, one that made something inside him stir.

As he watched the amorphous shapes in the steam appeared to coalesce into a complete picture: he and Lydia, in a bed, both in a state of nearly complete undress. Her small, pale breasts were naked to his eye, moving and shivering as the him in the image thrust in and out of her.

There was no sound, but he could well imagine the slap of skin against skin, her pants in his ear as her nails dug deeper in his back. His own needy sounds as she clung to him like he were the only thing on the Earth that truly mattered.

It was enough to make the real him bite back a low groan as he resisted the urge to take himself in hand and masturbate; only half caring that Peter was only a short distance away.

Except when Jordan opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—Peter was right there next to him, his breath somehow hotter against the skin of his neck than the rest of him. “Oh Jordan.” Fingers brushed his shoulder, making him shiver.

“Let me touch you. You ache so _much_ and it makes _me_ ache to see you suffer so.” Those same light fingers grazed his neck, making Jordan swallow convulsively. “You need not fear rejection from your love.” Peter’s voice sounded right in his ear. “If she loves you true she will still take you into her arms, and let you spear her cunny.” Jordan’s hips jerked at the man’s crude words.

“Women can hold grudges as harsh as summer, true.” Once again Jordan closed his eyes, finding himself falling into the net of Peter’s voice. “That is only if you hide yourself from them. Only tell them all your desires and shames, and they will do the same to you. That is love.” For the briefest of moments Jordan could’ve sworn he felt Peter’s lips press against the pounding vein in his throat. “Now _please_ , I want to touch you.”

Hearing such a powerful man beg made Jordan’s blood heat further, and he found his head lolling to the side, giving Peter unimpeded access. “Yes,” he found himself whispering.

Those soft lips returned to his neck, parting to press the hidden sharp teeth oh so gently against his skin. Just as gently they nibbled at him, the sensation making him all too aware of Peter’s hands, resting on his knees before beginning to slid upwards. Jordan found himself moaning, legs falling apart to invite Peter in further.

Peter’s mouth pulled away from Jordan’s neck, his head moving up until he was looking Jordan in the eye. He rested his forehead against Jordan’s, his mouth moving in to press softly against Jordan’s, his tongue darting out against the seam of Jordan's lips. “Ah Jordan.”

Jordan gave a loud cry, his head falling back, nearly hitting the tile, as one of those teasing hands finally wrapped around his aching cock.

“I would show you so much pleasure if you gave yourself to me.” The hand stroked up and down, squeezing and releasing rhythmically as it did so. “I could make you a lover so skilled that no one could resist you.” Lips dragged across Jordan’s cheek, until Peter’s mouth was at his ear. “You don’t want everyone do you? No.” Jordan whimpered as Peter’s fingers began playing with his foreskin, doing things he hadn’t even thought possible. “You’ll only ever desire your dear Lydia, the queen of your world. She whom you would do anything for.”

Peter’s hand wrapped around the head of his cock and gave a squeeze, making Jordan buck again. “She is not a cruel woman, to take without giving in return.” A cry left Jordan as he felt himself release, the tension in his muscles leaving him all at once, causing him to slump against the tile.

“No.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Peter’s hand rose up out of the water and move to Peter’s face, where the man began licking it clean, taking in the jism that the water hadn’t managed to wash off; it made Jordan shudder to watch. “She is a true goddess.” The moment those fingers were clean they stroked against Jordan’s skin again.

“I would like to hope there is some small cranny in your heart for me, if you wish to give it.” Peter’s lips settled against Jordan’s again, and his eyes slid shut as he opened his mouth for the other man.

It was nothing like the kisses he’d been able to share with Lydia thus far, but it felt like the sort of kiss he _wanted_ to share with her; full of devotion and heat, promising the world if he’d only ever say ‘yes’.

When they pulled apart Peter gave him a fond smile. “Go back up to your room Jordan, it shall be a long trek home for you on the morrow, and you should be well rested.” Lips pressed softly against his shoulder. “In the morning I shall only be your friend, so you need have no fear. When we meet again in London should you wish more, speak with your wife, and come find me.”

In what felt like a haze Jordan nodded and stood, wrapping his towel around his waist he left Peter in the hot spring and walked through all the rooms of the bath back towards his effects.

In the little room he dressed, pressing a fervent kiss against the cool metal of his locket. Then dragged himself up to his room, where he undressed and fell into the warm softness of his bed. Easily sliding into a dreamless sleep.

-

In the morning Jordan felt refreshed as he made his way down to the dining room. When he entered he was sad to note Peter was not there.

Immediately after that thought flitted through his brain heat rose in his cheeks, recalling the other afternoon. He did feel like he had betrayed Lydia, but there was not as much guilt as he thought he would feel. Still, he resolved to tell her after they were married, and hope for the best.

Eating alone felt...strange. He found himself surprised to realize he’d grown used to sharing meals with someone else, the flow of conversation and the easy camaraderie that must have come from breaking bread together. It made an altogether wonderful meal feel lackluster. He ate mechanically, knowing that soon he would leave this place and walk back down to the village, where he would hopefully be able to convince someone to give him a ride to Tripoli—if anyone even would considering he’d come from what they thought of as a cursed place.

Certain he could manage one way or the other.

Feeling like he couldn’t eat anymore—more from the disquiet than any feeling of fullness—Jordan got up and left, heading towards the entryway where he knew his things would be waiting for him.

Waiting alongside them was Peter, who smiled at him. “Good day to you Jordan.”

“Peter.” Jordan somehow managed to give a little nod without blushing profusely. “Thank you for your wonderful hospitality, and your kindness.” After all Peter hadn’t needed to be so accommodating, he could have treated Jordan like the hired help and it wouldn’t have been anything new to him. But his time here in Greece has been far _more_ , well, more than he’d ever thought it would be; for more reasons than one.

“Think nothing of it, it is _you_ who should be thanked. Be certain I shall write your firm and tell them of the wonderful work you did for me.” Peter gave a wry smile. “I wish I could see you off in better fashion, but I fear while this place does not have much in the way things, what few there are take work to properly store.” He stepped closer, but still kept a good amount of distance between them; most likely keeping to his promise from yesterday. “So I shall wish you a speedy trip, and a fruitful marriage.”

Jordan gave him a smile. “Thank you.”

Peter nodded, then went up the stairs, Leaving Jordan alone.

Heaving a little sigh for the trek he was about to take Jordan hefted his bags and left the manor. Halfway down the small track he could hear the mournful howl of a wolf behind him and felt a feeling of sadness he couldn’t quite explain pass through him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From what I've read there're actually a few different kind of Greek baths (differing from public/private, etc) so I just picked the sort that gave me more writing options xD.


	5. Interlude II

_(Telegram from Gibraltar, Spain)_

**Priority-Ms. Lydia Martin**

**Regret to inform your fiance Jordan Parrish has fallen ill STOP A severe fever STOP Doctors believe he will recover STOP**

-

_Dear Lydia,_

_I write to inform you that I have made a fully recovery, despite the fact I have heard some of the doctors and nurses gossip about how the fever I had should have cooked my brain like an egg. Apologies for the...vivid imagery, but I am duced hungry at the time of writing this. I should be on the next ship that leaves Gibraltar (it is at least the height of luck that I fell ill in a British colony). The fever did no real harm to me, I am told, though I have vague recollections of many hallucinations; some even of  my departed parents, though most, from what I can recall, were of fire._

_I shall be home soon my love, in more than enough time for our wedding._

_Forever yours,_

_Jordan_


	6. Chapter 3

Lydia stood at the docks, Mrs. Walker and Allison by her side, feeling a frisson of both excitement and worry as they waited for Jordan’s ship to come in. It was a glorious late May morning, the rain from earlier in the week feeling like a long ago memory. Unfortunately the usual smells had returned, but Lydia had slipped packets of smelling salts into her gloves and so could temporarily escape. To give herself _something_ to do—if she began pacing she knew Ms. Walker would frown—she spun her parasol, watching the shadow of it against the ground as it shifted and moved.

A familiar lace covered hand took her empty one and squeezed. “Don’t worry Lydia, he’ll be alright.” Her best friend gave her an encouraging smile.

She did her best to return it. Despite Allison’s assurances, and Jordan’s most recent letter, she still felt as if something had changed drastically since Jordan left. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d felt such a premonition, but most times when she’d felt them and told people about them they were laughed off—she barely held in a flinch as she recalled Jackson’s far too well placed words when she’d told him he shouldn’t go to Greece nearly a year ago now.

Instead she chewed at the inside of her lip, doing her best to keep from drawing Ms. Walker’s attention to it; soon enough the woman would be gone. _Tw_ _o and a half weeks_ , Lydia thought with giddy joy.

The blare of a steamer horn made her jump and she rolled her eyes at Allison’s brief laughter. Her eyes flickered to the ship that had just entered the harbor and she felt her shoulders slump in relief to see it was the _HMS Daphne_ , the one Jordan had told her he would be arriving on.

“Now we wait,” she said it more for herself, grateful when Allison squeezed her hand again.

“Do you want me to distract you?” Allison asked lightly, showing that she truly was the best friend Lydia could ever hope for. “I’m sure there’s some _minute_ piece of my own wedding we could get wrapped up in while the ship docks.”

Lydia let herself laugh, grateful for the tension it relieved in her. “I would like to think my own wedding day would not feel _this_ awful.”

“Certainly Jordan won’t be sick on that day, if all goes well. My aunt tells me that the worry is a good sign. It shows him that you care about him, in a way he can understand.” Allison gives a little huff. “If that’s the case then Scott must be the most loved man in all of England, for I find I fret quite often whenever he even leaves the city to visit the nearby farms.”

Now it was Lydia who squeezed Allison’s hand. “I know he appreciates every moment of it. That man loves you as if you were the sun and he a plant. I’m surprised it took him this long to propose quite honestly.” She was glad he had, and knew that the two of them would be blissfully happy together for the entirety of the their married lives.

Allison blushed faintly. “I would accuse you of reading his letters to me dear, but I know that would be beneath you. October does feel such a long way off.”

“I know dear, but it will be upon you sooner than you realize. Just like my own.” Only two and a half weeks, and sometimes Lydia felt as if she still hadn’t finished making all the necessary arrangements.

“Are you nervous?” Allison asked in a rush, her attention focused on a seagull pecking away at someone’s leftover food. “Not for the wedding, but...after?” It was hard to miss the fact that her cheeks were pink.

Lydia’s eyes darted quickly to her chaperone, whose attention was more on the people going to and fro rather than on her and Allison. Lydia expertly tilted her parasol to give them a bit more privacy. “Are you asking about the bridal tour, or the actual wedding night?” She asked in a stage whisper, surprised that Allison would even bring such a topic up in public. Not that her’s and Jordan’s tour was to be much: her parents had been only children and her grandparents were dead, with nary a ‘distant’ relation in sight. Jordan’s family tree was even more bare than her own, with not even his parents to join them at the ceremony.

“The night,” Allison admitted, her head coming closer to Lydia’s own so they could speak even more privately. “I know Scott loves me true, but well, what _happens_?”

It did feel strange to be the more ‘experienced’ of the two of them, especially since Lydia was younger by a year, and still hadn’t had intercourse herself. Lydia was more than willing to seek out answers, going so far as to pretend to be a man to get them.

“The next time you come to visit you must bring a good sized reticule, and we shall contrive of some reason for you to be in my room and I’ll lend you my books.” She had them tucked away atop her wardrobe, a spot she knew the maid didn’t dust; of the three she had Lydia was certain the anatomy folio—that she’d filched from Stiles—would be the most useful for Allison, but she’d lend the _Every Woman’s Guide_ too.

Relief crossed Allison’s face. “Oh thank you.” She pressed a kiss to Lydia’s cheek.

Lydia nodded. “Of course. I would be a poor friend indeed if I didn’t help you in any way I could.”

“You two are a lovely sight for these sore eyes.” Lydia’s head jerked away from Allison at the sound of Jordan’s voice. Turning she saw him standing there, his suitcases beside him.

“Jordan!” She cried delightedly, striding over to him. Stopping a few steps away ever mindful of her chaperone—she found she desperately wished to throw herself into his arms, a good sign she was sure. “You look well.” To her relief. In fact there was no sign at all that he might have been ill, even with a sniffle.

He smiled widely at her, and ducked down laying a brief peck on her cheek. “It is good to see you as well dearest. As well as to be home.” His smile turned more formal as he pulled away. “Ms. Argent, Ms. Walker,” he greeted.

The swish of Allison’s skirts sounded loud over the sounds of the dock. “I’m glad you’re safe home Jordan, I do believe all of us were worried Lydia would throw herself into her studies so much after you left that not even the Rapture would pull her out of them.”

Jordan laughed softly and took her hand. “I’m glad to see she hasn’t, though I’m certain if she had the world would be a much different place now.”

His compliment made her flush faintly. “You are too kind Jordan.”

“Nonsense, now, let’s say I call us a carriage, I take my belonging home, and we go out for a tea? I find I’ve been missing it these past months away.”

Allison gave a soft smile. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline Mr. Parrish, I already have an engagement for this afternoon, but would be more than happy to ride with you for now.”

Jordan turned his attention to her. “Lydia?”

“I would be more than happy to Jordan,” she smiled. It would be good to speak with him again, even with Ms. Walker watching over them.

He smiled back and Lydia felt certain her heart would burst, when he offered her his arm she gladly took it. With his other hand he picked up his bags, displaying a strength she didn’t recall him having, and led the way for the four of them.

They fell into easy conversation during the carriage ride. Allison telling Jordan of her own upcoming nuptials, Lydia speaking of Bath—perhaps if she and Jordan had a moment of true privacy she would tell him of her newest treatise—and Jordan, briefly, on Greece and Mr. Dimitriou.

They stopped briefly at his lodgings, soon to be hers as well she thought with a thrill, and when he returned he carried a package, Lydia arched an eyebrow at it. “What is that?”

Jordan’s smile had a mischievous air to it. “You’ll find out soon enough dear.”

She flushed, feeling as if his words were implying more than a surprise. She found the insinuation, intentional or not, pleased her.

Allison leaned in. “You’re so lucky,” she sighed in Lydia’s ear.

Lydia found her smile tightening, a act she could not explain, nor enjoyed. Before she could think on it further, or Allison comment on it, they arrived at Beaudell. Jordan alighting from the carriage to help her down.

“I am seeing you tomorrow, right Allison?” Lydia asked.

Allison nodded. “Yes, of course.” She smiled. “I’m sure it will be the most illuminating conversation about flowers I’ve ever had.”

A trickle of laughter escaped Lydia as Jordan climbed back in, sitting across from her when she wished he would sit next to her. The carriage jolted forward as they headed back into London proper to tea.

Jordan picked up his package again, as if what was inside was infinitely precious. “This is for you, a souvenir from Greece itself.”

“Oh Jordan, you needn't have.” In her mind the Lovelace book was gift enough. She opened the gift slowly, giving it the reverence it deserved.

“It’s not a matter of need.” Jordan’s smile was faint, but warm. “But want.”

His words again pleased something inside her, making her feel cherished. Whatever was in the box was well encased in tissue paper, and Lydia was careful not to spill any onto the carriage as a hand searched for the gift inside.

When it contacted something slightly hard, and tied together she grabbed hold and pulled out. A bouquet of five roses, the likes of which she’d never seen before. They’d been expertly dried, and yet when she brought them to her face she could still faintly smell their rich perfume. “These are _marvelous_ Jordan, thank you.” If they had been truly alone she would have gladly thrown herself across the carriage and kissed him; propriety be damned.

“Peter and I found them in a temple on his lands. It was a wonderful sight, if quite empty inside. If I recall correctly he said it was dedicated to Demeter.” The more logical part of her wished she could have gone with him, just to walk through those ruins herself, experience history even far older than that of the Romans. To see a whole instead of the parts one found in the British Museum.

If they were in larger company Lydia knew that she would have to play the simpleton and only comment again on how lovely the flowers were. Ms. Walker, while not _approving_ of Lydia’s interest in history, tolerated it—the woman still didn’t know of Lydia’s passion for mathematics, that was saved for true friends. “A good goddess to have a temple too, she was in charge of the harvest and growing.”

Jordan’s lips twitched. “Apparently a cannibal if the story I heard is true.”

Next to Lydia Ms. Walker gave a slight frown, but didn’t speak. Cannibalism was hardly conversation for polite society after all, even within the confines of a carriage.

Which soon came to a stop, halting the conversation. Jordan descended first, offering a hand to Mrs. Walker, then Lydia, the warmth of his hand sinking into her even through both their gloves.

At a glance she saw that for once Ms, Walker did not have her eyes on them, and found herself trying to convey that fact to Jordan without drawing too much attention to herself. Jordan was a clever man, no matter how often he denied it, and she bit back a sound as he laid a kiss on the exposed skin of her wrist. Giving her a smile she thought quite roguish when he straightened. “Shall we, my dear?”

She found she didn’t know what he was asking after, but hardly cared. “Always, Jordan.”

-

Around him came the sounds of Greek, both old and new, as business was done on the docks of Pilos. In a way it felt good to get out of the village he still ruled over and out into the wider world. Most of his kind prefered to keep to the wilds where they would remain undisturbed, but he had always enjoyed being in the crush of humanity, even for all their monstrosities.

A soft growl came from Aristides, as some of the humans came to close. Clawed nails reached out and pinched the pup’s ear. “Peace,” he warned. “They do no harm.” For now; but he knew his people well enough that he didn’t think the madness that had swept over the west the last time he had been awake would take them as well. There was too much practicality in them; a lingering of the old ways, even if they now worshiped only one god.

“But…”

A low growl of his own escaped him as Aristides began to protest, cutting off the pup. “We are different, that does not make them lesser,” he snapped softly. “We too will walk through Hades Polydegmon’s halls in time.” He knew he’d been blessed; nearly having outlived all of his brothers. How easily that could change.

Aristides went quiet, if a sullen one. He didn’t quite regret biting the boy yet, but if he didn’t learn and mature things would not go the way Aristides hoped they would. That was the pup’s problem not his.

The captain’s call for boarding pulled him from his musings, and Aristides dutifully followed as he boarded. At the bow of the ship he leaned against the railing, staring out into the wine dark Mediterranean.

“Go on Aristides, I wish to be alone.”

The pup bowed his head in a way that briefly bared his neck before walking off to mingle with the other passengers.

Here, next to the ocean, it barely felt like summer. The salt filled breeze fooling one into thinking it only spring. But go only a few kilometers in and he knew one would feel the full brunt of Demeter’s anger, as fresh as that first day her little Kore became the Iron Queen. He felt a smile dancing across his lips at the memories that story recalled.

He caught himself wondering what Jordan and his dear Lydia—would she be like the land she was named after?—would think of those tales if he chose to tell them. If they chose to hear them; he had good hopes for that however, considering Jordan’s attentiveness.

Pleasant heat filled him at the memory of that man falling apart under his fingers. An enjoyable experience he would like to repeat if possible. It’d been so long since he’d had a lover of any sort that the mere _possibility_ of two felt like a glut. He would need to be patient, let them make the suggestion. As always.

There was time yet for that. Once he was in London he had no intention of leaving any time soon.

-

Jordan grimaced at his reflection in the mirror as he attempted to do up his bow tie. It’d been so long since he’d even had to do up a _tie_ —after the first two days in Greece he hadn’t bothered, and on the trip home he had the excuse of being sick—that his fingers felt sluggish and bumbling.

He soon went from grimacing to outright baring his teeth, wishing this damnable thing weren’t so bloody difficult. If it weren’t required of him he’d just toss it out the window; not bother with it at all.

Through his flat the sound of someone knocking on the front door pulled him away from his Sisyphean task—he had voraciously consumed the text on Greek myths Lydia had readily lent him. Letting the ends hang loose around his neck he went to answer, half surprised to see that it was Scott on the other side. The other half was relieved that the man he’d picked as his best man—he’d never found himself all that close to his co-workers, so he’d just chosen from among Lydia’s friends—seemed determined to go above and beyond what was required of him, probably so as to prepare himself for his own marriage.

“Come in Scott.” He stepped aside. “I’ve got the money and rings right here.” He gestured to the gold bands resting on top of the money that Scott would use to pay the clerk and the priest after the ceremony.

The younger man gave him a smile. “Thanks. Nervous?” He gestures to the bowtie as he moved in, pocketing the money and the rings.

About the wedding? Surprisingly not. “Not used to it anymore,” he admitted.

Scott stepped toward him. “Here, let me.” Jordan tilted his neck up slightly for Scott. “Not used to it? Did you not wear ties in Greece?” There was a tone in Scott’s voice that suggested he’d certainly be willing to listen to any stories Jordan might want to tell.

“No,” he resisted the urge to shake his head. “It was only ever Dimitriou and I.” Reverting to Peter’s last name again felt strange on his tongue, almost disrespectful even. Such familiarity was generally frowned upon, let alone what he and Peter had actually shared—battling back the blush those memories brought was hard, but he managed. “That man didn’t stand much on British propriety.” To say the least.

“Done. Was it terrible? Did you see bandits?” Scott seemed more than happy to play the part of the excited child nephew; which made Jordan chuckle.

“It was hot, and dusty, and quite boring.” Wasn’t that a lie? “Now go on or we’ll both probably be late.” He smiled.

Scott ducked his head, but smiled back. “Alright, see you soon.” Jordan nodded and held the door for Scott.

Once he was alone again he slumped against the door, knowing he’d be glad when this whole ceremony was over. Making a life with Lydia seemed a less daunting task than marrying her.

With a sigh he pulled himself away from the door and dashed into his bedroom—soon it would be more than his—grabbing his gloves and top hat. He hadn’t been lying to Scott when he said they might be late, he just hoped that he didn’t arrive so late that they had to reschedule the whole thing. Then he was out the door, trying to go quickly while keeping himself looking nice, heading to the street to hail a hack.

-

Lydia felt both excitement and worry as she and Jordan retired to his flat for the very first time. In her reticule, feeling as if it were Hester’s own scarlet letter, was a sponge tied to a ribbon. Such a small thing, with such big implications.

The flat he rented were well kept and pleasant, if clearly lacking a _personal_ woman’s touch. In Lydia’s mind that just meant she could truly make her mark on the place; but that would be for later.

For now she silently trailed after Jordan, passing through a dim parlor, the dining room—through which she could barely see the kitchen—and a drawing room, the final door they passed through leading to his bedroom. Here, like in all the other rooms, there was a gas lamp hanging from the ceiling, and in the failing light of the sun—the window to the outside faced west here—she watched as he lit it, warm light filling the room.

Not wishing for awkwardness to form Lydia went over to the small vanity already set up for her and placed her reticule, veil and gloves. Looking over her shoulder she saw Jordan staring at her. “Would you help me?” She invited. “I’m fairly certain I can’t get out of this dress on my own. Let alone the corset.” On the whole she liked corsets but her mother had been insistent that it be tighter than Lydia usually prefered, so removing it was going to be a chore.

“Ye, yes.” Jordan’s cheeks were pink as he came over to her, and Lydia turned her head back around so he didn’t see her smile, even in the mirror. “Ah, I’m not quite sure how to start.”

This time she didn’t bother to hide her smile. “There are pearl buttons on the back, they should undo easily enough.” Wouldn’t it be her luck if they didn’t? It would make for a more interesting story than most women if she had to be cut out of her dress because neither of them could get it off.

His _bare_ fingers felt warm, even through her layers of clothing, as he slowly undid every button. The dress starting to give the further down he went, the cool air hitting new skin. She could tell he’d reached the end when his hands hesitated. “Now come grab the shoulders and help me step out of it.” The dress was far too massive for her to pull it over her head like she did with most of her dresses.

Soon enough she was out of it, and they could begin on what felt like an excessive amount of underthings. It was the same amount she usually wore day to day, yet now it felt like too much.

Jordan’s fingers grew more confident as he helped her out of the first petticoat and the bustle. “I do believe this will take us all night at this point,” he joked.

She laughed, welcoming the pleasant talk. “Perhaps that is why no one talks about what happens, they’re too embarrassed to say all they did was undress.” A scandalous thing to say, but Lydia couldn’t help herself.

His laughter joined hers.

Now they reached the dratted corset. “The bow will undo the strings, but you’ll have to loosen the laces, _slowly_ , before we can take it off.” It was strange to think soon enough she wouldn’t need to instruct him, it would just become part of their nightly ritual.

So close to being naked his touch felt even more intimate as he loosened her corset, Lydia took her first full breath in hours.

“Lydia?” He sounded concerned.

“I’m fine,” she responded. Pulling her corset off and negligently tossing it aside—she _should_ hang it up, just like her dress, but she didn’t want to think about banal things like that—basically naked she turned around and gave his still dressed form a look. “Now for you.”

He didn’t respond, and she found a blush creeping up her cheeks when she realized it was because he was staring at her. His eyes dilated almost completely as he took in her nearly naked body.

Barely a second later she found herself pulled against his front and he was leaning down and kissing her. It was everything their previous shared kisses had ever promised, and she opened her mouth to moan softly as the kiss became somehow more. When they finally broke apart, what felt like an eternity later, the both of them were breathing heavily, and somehow she’d managed to push his jacket half off.

She felt as if her blood had somehow caught fire and that fire only sought to raise her emotions and passion. It was a feeling unlike any other she’d experienced and she found herself angry that it was taboo to talk of this. So many women would be less terrified if they knew it was good.

Slipping his jacket all the rest of the way off she grasped his shirt and rising up as high as she could kissed him again, wholeheartedly giving into the conflagration within her. His clothes went flying as they kissed, making her laugh into his mouth as they tried to get even closer to each other.

Thankfully he was laughing too, the sound making her feel buoyant. When she felt him take a step back she pulled away. “Wait!”

He froze, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to keep going, but also wanting to respect her. “What?”

“There’s something we should talk about, before we lose ourselves.” If she waited any longer she feared she’d forget completely.

Jordan stepped away from her, giving her some much needed breathing space. “What is that Lydia?”

Mustering up all the courage she had she went back to her vanity and opening her reticule pulled out the sponge, closing her fist around it. Turning around she stopped in front of him. “Children.”

“Oh.” He staggered back a little as if she’d stabbed him, falling onto his, their, bed. “Do you want children?”

“Of course.” She walked over and joined him on the bed, sitting instead of laying down. “Just not right away.” Making sure he could see her clenched fist she uncurled it to show him the sponge. “I want to know _you_ , wholly and completely, without fear that our lives will dramatically change by happenstance. I want to know what we, the two of us, are like before we become three.”

He stared at the sponge as if he’d never seen anything like it in his life, and perhaps he hadn’t. She hadn’t truly thought to ask what his... _history_ before marrying her was like. Finally his gaze went back to her. “For how long?”

She felt relief that he hadn’t rejected her suggestion outright. “A year, but I would allow that perhaps a few months down the line we could change our minds and start attempting to have children then.” For right now marriage was a big enough change in her life.

About a minute passed before he nodded, even more relief flooding her. “Alright, a year, maybe less.” He rose up to a sitting position and gave her a soft kiss, there was a faint blush on his cheeks when he pulled away. “So, ah, how does it...work?”

She made a gesture for him to hold out his hand, and when he did she dropped the sponge in it, standing back up and reaching under her chemise slipped out of her knickers. Jordan went slack jawed as she climbed back onto the bed and lay down next to him, her hands grasping the hem of her chemise and tugging it up. “It goes here, inside my vagina.” It was an instructional, almost scientific phrase; but it felt _filthy_ coming from her right here and now.

His gaze turned intent and she felt awe that she didn’t burst into flames at the touch of it. She watched, just as intent and a little wary, as he got to his knees and moved so he was kneeling above her. The hand of his not holding the sponge joined her own hands in their task and soon the front of her chemise was around her waist, baring her private parts to him.

“Right here?” He murmured as his hand cupped her vulva.

Sensations she’d never experienced before in her life zinged in her body, drawing the most wanton sound from her throat as her hips twitched; sending even more sensations crashing through her as some part of his hand rubbed against a part of her that she realized must but her clitoris. _Oh_. “Yes,” she moaned. “As far,” he hadn’t moved his hand and it was becoming _unbearable_. “As far in as you can get it, otherwise,” she attempted to even out her breathing, but failed miserably. “It’s liable to slip out.”

He gave the most serious nod. “Scoot up please, otherwise I fear I might fall of the bed.”

Her burst of laughter was unexpected, but more welcome for it, as she moved up; mourning the loss of his hand. Feeling like a harlot—although if penetration was even better than what she’d experienced so far she could understand why someone would do it for money—she spread her legs apart, letting him see where he would be working.

“So lovely,” he said quietly as he made himself comfortable between her knees, sitting tailor fashion. His hands smoothing up her thighs in a comforting gesture. Then his empty hand slid under her derriere, and he lifted her up, a squeak of surprise leaving her. He settled her thighs across his knees, which felt even more revealing; the fabric of his pants catching against her skin as she shifted, making her even more aware. “Is this alright?”

She gave a quick nod, finding that she wanted to know what he would do next more than anything, her current position meant she could basically see everything, and that thought made her flush. Her eyes watched, focused on nothing else, as his free hand returned to her vulva, pointer and middle fingers drifting upwards on either part of her seam, smoothing through the hair there. A whimper passed his lips, and her hips twitched, seemingly desperate to have him inside her.

There was a smile on his face, not smug but pleased, as he did it again. “I didn’t think it would be this sensitive,” he told her quietly. “Will it hurt?”

“No,” she managed to get out. It could be a lie however. After all, masturbation made one infertile, so she'd had no chance to find out for herself.

At least Jordan believed her, and she gasped as she felt his fingers push into her seam and split open her labia. “It’s so soft,” his awed words made her flush, right down to her toes it felt.

Not that she had much time to think about that, because his other hand joined the first and before she knew it those two fingers, and the sponge, slid into her vagina. She thrashed as she felt those fingers sink further, a shuddering moan falling from her lips.

Jordan paused. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she nearly cried out. Finding that if she moved her hips she could gain even more sensation, even if his fingers had stopped moving.

Soon they continued, until they could go no further, his palm pressing once more against her clitoris. “Is this deep enough?” If she couldn’t hear the shakiness in his voice she would think this didn’t affect him at all.

Letting loose another whimper she nodded. “But...” She wondered if intercourse would always turn her into this. “Make, sure the ribbon can...be grabbed.” After all, if what she’d read was correct leaving it inside her would be just as bad as if they hadn’t used it as all.

He gave a small, but serious, nod; and he began to pull his fingers out. The sides of her vagina clinging to him as he did so. She could hear his own breath pick up as his fingers left her, making her feel bereft.

Through hooded eyes she watched as he brought the fingers that had been inside her up to his face, inspecting them. It made her squirm again, because how could any sort of discharge from her body be interesting?

As she watched he gave a small sniff, then...her body flushed again—and she felt certain that tomorrow when she climbed out of bed she’d _still_ be blushing—as he _licked_ his fingers. It was positively indecent was what it was, but she couldn’t look away as he made a pleased sound and quickly finished cleaning his fingers.

Soon he bent down and nuzzled the valley of her breasts, sending more sensations through her as the fabric of her chemise moved with him, rubbing against nipples she hadn’t realized could be that sensitive. “You taste _wonderful_ , Lydia, nearly better than gingerbread.”

Another blush, to be compared to Jordan’s favorite dessert was not what she expected. “Jordan, please,” she sighed. Both wanting to get it over with, and not wanting this illicit decadence—it must be, because what good, normal couple did _that_?—to end.

He picked her hips up again, and slid her off him. He climbed off the bed and she turned her head to watch as he finished undressing. Revealing his penis to her for the first time.

It was...both exactly like in the anatomy book, and not. For one thing the anatomy book hadn’t told her it would be so...red. Nor that it would move and swing as if it had a mind of it’s own as Jordan climbed back into the bed.

He moved to lay atop of her, and she could feel the pulsing of his penis like a second heartbeat against her mons and vulva. Jordan scooted a little further down, so they were eye to eye and she could feel the head of him bumping up against her vulva. “Jordan?”

Ducking down he kissed her again. “I love you.”

Warmth and affection overflowed in her heart. “I love you as well, dearest.”

They shared another brief kiss, and then his hand moved down to grasp himself and seconds later she felt him pushing through her vulva and into her vagina, same as his fingers. Except his penis was much more firm and larger than his fingers could ever hope to be.

For a moment her hands scrambled around, before grasping his shoulders and digging in deep.

A grunt left him and she felt his hand leave as he sunk in even deeper. Her vagina feeling as if it were being expanded far beyond what it should be able to hold; but it didn’t hurt, somehow.

“Slowly,” she panted in his ear. “Please.” Her legs coming closer to his own,until they pressed against them, which managed to change the feel of him inside her even more.

“Saints Lydia,” he panted back, slipping in a little further. “You’re like a glove.”

She had no idea if that was good or bad. Not that she cared, not with this pleasure filling her once again; some distant part of her was just glad that it had not hurt like her mother said it would.

He seemed to just keep sliding deeper and deeper, as if his cock and her vagina were infinite. A ridiculous notion, one that was soon debunked when his testicles slapped lightly against her skin. She found herself moaning just at that; no wonder there were couples with hoards of children when intercourse felt _this_ good. And they’d only just started.

“Are you alright?” Because he was so much taller than her they weren’t completely eye to eye, but he was still looking straight into hers, and she could almost see the love and concern shining out of his.

She gave a little nod, and in some deep, feminine instinct she clenched the muscles in her belly.

Jordan nearly collapsed onto her, a moan so high and—dare she say it?—feminine slipping from his lips that she squirmed. Something dark and hungry curling in her belly and demanding more. “Jordan?” She felt half worried that she may have done something to him.

His head slumped into her neck and she could feel his lips pressing soft kisses there. “I’m, I’m alright. That was...Christ.” He shuddered. The sudden blasphemy—not that she was much of a church goer herself—took her by surprise, she hadn’t known something like that was in him.

Then he started to pull out and she found herself frowning, because that couldn’t be it. She hadn’t felt a discharge of any sort, nor did she feel as if she’d reached her own completion.

Opening her mouth to ask him about it, all her fine words cut off by a gasp when he thrust back in. “ _O_ _h_.”

Words seemed to fail the both of them as they continued to move, reduced to only sounds as he, again and again, drove into her, as if seeking some part of her he hadn’t quite reached. Even if she had it in her to complain she wouldn’t, this, this was too good. She felt as if her mind was going blank, only a vessel for the pleasure filling her. It should have been frightening, but all she felt was ecstasy.

She squeezed around him again. This time in reaction to the fact that he’d just set his teeth into the crook of her neck, and he moaned, the sound echoing through her and she could only sigh as she felt what must be his seed fill her.

To her it felt as if her pleasure could go no higher, and she found herself disappointed, partly in herself even. They had not completed together after all, grounds enough for an annulment.

All Jordan did however was release her neck and kiss that same spot softly. “I am going to try something, but you have to let me try it before you can protest alright?” His earnest eyes glimmered in the gas light.

“What?” She asked, frowning as he pulled out of her.

He nuzzled the valley of her breasts again, teeth tugging lightly on the fabric of her chemise. “If I tell you you will turn it out of hand.” Her whole body felt as if it jumped off the bed when his tongue stroked her nipple through her chemise. “Trust me, please.”

Her nod this time felt more shaky. This was her husband, she had sworn to love and honor him, what was trust compared to those?

One of his brilliant smiles broke across his face as his head tilted down, hiding it from view as he began to move lower, and lower still. He couldn’t…

It seemed he did, for soon enough his face was right _there_ , his eyes intent on what must be her quivering labia. “Jordan…” This could _not_ be something that was done, not ever. Yet...that dark wicked thing in her purred at the very thought.

“Let me try it for a minute my love. You…” she could see him blush. “That taste was not enough, I want more.”

“A minute,” her voice was tremulous as she agreed, to this, this, _depravity_. She gripped tightly the bedcover, tilting her head up so she instead stared at the ceiling instead of her, surprisingly _wicked_ husband. “One,” she counted.

He laughed softly, and she could _feel_ it, his exhalations blowing against her skin and making her tremble.

“Two.” At this rate he would get nothing more done than stare at her.

Then his fingers touched her again, this time instead of teasing her labia each set grabbed one side and pulled them apart, exposing her far more than she’d ever been in her life. The thought should have embarrassed her greatly, but instead she found herself quaking, a soft whimper escaping her.

“Just a taste,” he murmured against her sensitive skin.

Then his tongue _touched_ her, she nearly bowed off the bed at the feelings it created in her. Any and all thoughts of counting the rest of his minute left her as his tongue did things to her she was sure was against _some_ law, even for all its pleasing.

Over and over, that conflagration inside her growing once again, until she felt it begin to plateau once more.

Until two things happened, the first was that his nose began bumping her clitoris as he attempted to get his tongue deeper inside her, the second was that he moaned, the vibrations of it feeling as if they were rattling her bones.

More whimpering left her as she thrashed on the bed, her body overflowing with so much sensation and pleasure she feared she might explode. “Jordan,” she cried out softly as all the tension in her body seemed to leave her at once, making her feel as weak and limp as a newborn.

Through hooded eyes she watched as he pulled away from her, his face shiny with liquids as he rose up. He cleaned himself studiously, hands and tongue working to get every last drop; just watching it made her body clench. Then his hand returned to her labia, groping for a moment before grabbing the ribbon that held the sponge and pulling it off, negligently tossing it off somewhere in the bedroom.

When he was satisfied with his state he moved to lay next to her, on his side and curled up against her, body warm and comforting. “Thank you,” he murmured against her shoulder, laying a soft kiss there.

She curled the arm he was resting his neck on and ran her hand through his hair. “That was…” She nearly had no words, nothing like _that_ had ever been mentioned in the _Every Woman’s Book_ , let alone _Aristotle's Masterpiece_. “How did you even think to do that?” Genuine curiosity fueled the question, and she found herself wondering that if it was good for her, could the same be done to Jordan? And again her whole body seemed to flush at the thought.

Not that she expected Jordan to join her in that respect. “I would rather not answer that question, not now. Perhaps we should turn in for the night?” He rose up and gave her a light kiss. “I know your friends will descend on us like the proverbial locus the second it is socially acceptable.” He kissed her again. “I’ll put out the light, you make yourself comfortable.”

Part of her wanted to defend her friends from his loving jibe, but she knew it was also the truth. So instead she gave him a light shove as his got up, which at least he chuckled at. Not even bothering to change into a nightgown she slid under the covers; they were slightly cool, but she knew they’d soon heat up.

The room went dark and moments later she felt the bed shift as Jordan climbed in with her. Any sort of coolness lingering under the covers vanished as he once again curled up next to her, still as naked as she—well more since she still wore her chemise. “Good night, Mrs. Parrish,” he whispered into her hair.

Her very toes curled at hearing that. “Good night husband mine.” Some strange certainty telling her that it truly would be until death did part them.

-

A week after their wedding, right after returning from the bridal tour, not that it could rightly be called that Jordan thought with a wry grin, he sat in his tiny office—really a desk in the drawing room—when Lydia came in. “Dinner’s nearly ready,” she told him. One hand coming to rest on his shoulder, the other his forehead.

He found himself frowning at the action, she’d been doing it at least once a day now, and while at first he’d thought it was just another touch of affection—they had grown numerous since the wedding night—he quickly came to the realization that she was checking something. “Is something the matter? You keep touching my forehead?” He turned his head to look at Lydia.

Who wore some of a matching frown. “You always feel warm, warmer than you should. I’m just worried, perhaps your fever is coming back?”

It was both a question and a statement, but he shook his head. “I feel fine, if this were that earlier fever I’m certain we both know. But,” he raised his head up and kissed her cheek. “If it would make you feel better we can go to a doctor.” He knew she was far more intelligent than him after all, including in the medical arts. If Lydia was worried then she has a reason to be.

“I would like that, perhaps we could go and see Stiles tomorrow? He can at least confirm if it’s something to worry about, or just one of those little things.” She gave him a tentative smile, still seemingly concerned with his perception of her knowledge.

Rising up he took her in his arms. “I see no problem with that.” He kissed the crown of her head. “Thank you for telling me.”

This time her smile in response was real.

-

“I’m not a doctor,” Stiles told them both flatly after Lydia explained what she’d noticed. “I work with _dead_ bodies. The warmest temperature I’m used to working with is 21.” Which was pretty obvious to Jordan, but he wasn’t going to make any sort of comments.

Lydia sighed, and gave a fond roll of her eyes. “I’m not asking you to give him a physical. I just thought your medical training might have at least exposed you to _some_ of the less common fevers. If you think it’s something to worry about, then we’ll go seek out a real doctor.”

Stiles looked torn between pleased and annoyed; to Jordan it seemed as if their friendship consisted mainly of debate and argument, yet even after exchanging heated words they somehow still managed to remain pleasant to each other.

“Fine,” Stiles sighed. “I’ll get my bag and look him over.”

“Thank you.”

Once Stiles left his study Lydia got up and began looking over the books haphazardly shoved into bookcases. “Lydia?”

“Mmm?” She opened a book and flipped through the pages. “Yes Jordan?”

“What are you doing?” He wasn’t all that sure he wanted to know the answer however.

Seemingly displeased with the book she’d picked up she put it back. “Seeing if Stiles has any new books that I could purloin.”

“Lydia!” It managed to be both appalled and amused.

She gave him a flat look, but soon after gave up on her search. “What? It’s not as if I take anything that’s vitally important to his work, nor does he notice. And this is the only way…” She drifted off as Stiles’ footsteps return their way.

Jordan still understood what she was getting at; as a woman there were some types of books that were forbidden to her, an idea that just felt so bizarre to Jordan.

“You know,” Stiles’ voice interrupted Jordan’s thoughts. “This would be more accurate if you’d just sent for me. It’s not as we have an hour we can spend while he’s in bed.” Jordan had vague recollections of that happening to him as a child.

“It will be good enough,” Lydia responded back tartly.

Now Stiles was the one rolling his eyes as he pulled out a thin leather tube from his medical kit. Opening it he pulled out a thermometer and held it out to Jordan. “Under the tongue please.”

The glass was cool as he put it in his mouth and he grimaced. Stiles gave him a commiserating smile. “Now we wait a few moments.”

It felt like forever before Stiles unceremoniously plucked the thermometer from his mouth and inspected the mercury inside. “Well, you certainly should be worried Lydia. Thirty-eight degrees, most definitely above normal.”

“I do feel perfectly fine,” Jordan responded, not in protest precisely.

Lydia and Stiles wore matching thinking frowns. Stiles spoke first. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If your curious enough to want to read it for yourself, [Every Woman’s Book](http://digital.library.lse.ac.uk/objects/lse:diz789zox). From what I found when I stumbled across it it was written in the mid 1800s, and at the time it was radically progressive, of course now it's a little backwards (like how it says that a woman's 'no' is just a delayed 'yes'...), but it's still an interesting piece of sexual literature. Aristotle's Masterpiece ( _not_ written by Aristotle) is another book on sexuality, but aimed more towards men, and definitely more derogatory from the snippets I read (I chased the EWB lead instead of this one), so read at your own risk.
> 
> This chapter of course was an interesting line for me to toe, because in the show Lydia's very sexual and knows what she wants, but that's not at all how women in Victorian England were raised. So it became a sort of balancing act to keep Lydia Lydia and yet have her still be 'correct' period wise. Of course most women in that time weren't as lucky as she is, or have access to what she had.
> 
> And yes, most children/young adults (regardless of sex/gender) were raised to believe that masturbation made you infertile.
> 
> So here's your fun Victorian fact of the day, apparently not simultaneously orgasming (you know that thing that happens in _all_ romance novels and yet is nearly impossible to achieve in real life?) _was_ actually grounds for an annulment of a marriage. Yeah, I don't really understand how that was a thing either.
> 
> All the temps are in Celsius (38 is about 101 in Fahrenheit). And yes it used to be common practice for a patient to be in bed for an hour before their temperature was taken.


	7. Interlude III

The Daily Telegraph

June 10th, 18--

Large Black Dog Terrorises Westminster!

 

A large black dog has been spotted by numerous eyewitnesses prowling around the streets of Westminster at night. While none have gotten a Credible look at it, the whole of the descriptions paint a terrifying picture: a large black furred hound, easily the size of a pony, with claws like knives and eyes, some say, glowing bright red.

  
Those who make the claim of the glowing eyes say that the dog is none other than Black Shuck, _see page 4_


	8. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops! Sorry I didn't post this yesterday folks, I got caught up in RL things (my brain was basically 'Baking' and 'STAR WARS!!!!!!!!' ~~ask me how much OT4 trash I am!~~ all day).

Lydia shifted her parasol closer to better shade herself from the sun, eyes following Jordan— _her husband_ a part of her thrilled—as he bought ices from a vendor. Her worry from last week wasn’t gone, but it was fainter now. Stiles might not have known what was going on with Jordan, but he thought someone he once worked with would. She felt as if she could put it from her mind for now, and focus on happier things.

“Hello, Mrs. Parrish.” A man’s voice, warm and deep sounded right next to her ear.

She started with a soft shriek, whirling around to see what sort of ruffian was attempting to accost her. Although what ruffian—outside of her friends—would know her name?

The man in question hardly _looked_ like a ruffian; in fact he looked quite well indeed. Dark hair, a little longer than fashionable—but in a way that was fashionable too—a well trimmed goatee, lovely blue eyes, and an expertly cut suit. All in all he looked the gentleman, which made his rude intrusion all the more jarring.

“I do not believe we have been properly introduced,” she filled her voice with as much polite venom as she could. A sharp rebuke for his forwardness.

The man inclined his head. “Apologies. It has been quite some time since I have been in society.” A curious light came into his eyes as he glanced behind her. “Ah, Jordan! Come, as I have been reminded, introductions are needed.”

She turned to see Jordan approaching with the ices. A smile breaking out on his face when he saw the older man. “Peter.” So this was the ever interesting Mr. Dimitriou? “Lydia dear, this is Mr. Peter Dimitriou. Peter, this is my lovely wife Lydia Parrish.”

Feeling much more on firmer footing now, Lydia offered him a hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Dimitriou. Jordan has spoken quite fondly of his stay in Greece.”

Dimitriou bowed over her hand, bringing it up to his lips and kissing the back of it, surprising her. When he returned to his full height, nearly that of Jordan, the light in his eye had changed somewhat, in a fashion she found made her shiver. “Has he now? I shall endeavor to live up to his praises.”

Jordan handed her one of the ices. “Peter. What brings you to the zoological society?” It took a little maneuvering but she managed to free her hands so she could enjoy her ice unimpeded. The lemon flavor burst upon her tongue in a decadent fashion and she closed her eyes in pleasure.

She opened them just in time to see Dimitriou smile. “It was such a nice day out I couldn't bare to spend it indoors. The concierge at the hotel recommended this place; it's wonderful serendipity to run into you.”

“Would you like to join us?” Both men looked at her, Jordan more surprised that Dimitriou. She tore her eyes away from both of them to focus intently on her ice, but she could still feel a faint blush stain her cheeks. Her own outburst unexpected, but she refused to retract her invitation.

“It would be an honor, if it isn't too much of an imposition.” Polite to the core, a surprise considering his earlier stumble.

Her eyes moved to her husband. “Jordan?” She found she'd love to have Dimitriou with them, though if Jordan said no she'll stand by him as she should.

“It's no imposition at all Peter.” Jordan made a gesture with his empty hand. “Shall we head in?”

Lydia took another spoonful of her ice. “Let's, before the heat sets in.” It was morning, but the afternoon crept ever closer, and even in early June such heat could become horrendous.

Dimitriou clicked his tongue. “Mrs. Parrish I assure you London will never get as hot as Greece does.”

Her lips twitched. “I'll have to take your word for it Mr. Dimitriou, as I've never experienced a Grecian summer myself.”

“That is a shame, perhaps the next time I need your husband to travel there to do business with me you shall come along and brighten the countryside considerably.” She flushed deeper this time, taking another spoonful of her ice to distract herself as Dimitriou pulled out his billfold and stepped in front of them. “I must insist you call me Peter, just as your husband does.” Something in his voice sounded far richer than it did earlier; a very impolite shiver raced down her spine. “Three tickets please.”

She managed to recover herself. “Then you should call me Lydia.” She caught the look Jordan sent her way, clearly inquiring why she was acting so indecorous; honestly she wasn't so sure herself, but she couldn't find it in her to stop.

She thought that if she weren't madly in love with Jordan—and married to him—she'd probably be trying to entice Dimitriou into marriage herself. He had the sort of handsomeness she prefered, and so far his wit had been very pleasing. Along with that thought came the reminder that if not for her husband they wouldn't have met at all.

“Peter, there's no need,” Jordan protested as the seller handed Peter the tickets.

“Nonsense.” Peter turned back around. “I shall spend my money how I wish; and if it is treating my good friend and his glorious wife to a place such as this than it is no trouble whatsoever.”

A smile twitched at Jordan's lips at Peter's words, and Lydia found she felt much the same. She always did enjoy getting treated, whether it was by her friends, or her husband.

"Thank you Peter," she told him as they entered the main thoroughfare.

Peter inclined his head. "It truly is nothing."

"When did you arrive in London?" Jordan asked as they began meandering through the cages.

"Just last week, it has been quite the trouble for me. I would have tried to call on you earlier, but events conspired against me." Peter smiled as they paused in front of the tiger enclosure.

Lydia watched the beast pace in it's small space. "I hope your trip was a pleasant one."

Peter shrugged. "The weather turned for the worse in the Mediterranean, and I heard from some of the other passengers that one of the crew threw himself overboard after claiming to see a wolf."

"How ghastly," she murmured, more interested than anything really.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to meet you when you arrived." Jordan said.

Peter waved a hand as they moved on, going deeper in. "Again nothing you need worry over. I would never think to tear you from Lydia's side; especially with you so recently married."

"One final question Peter," Lydia tilted her parasol slightly. "How did you know who I was?" She found that it...perturbed her.

He laughed briefly. "Because of Jordan. I have seen your photograph in his locket enough times, that I could pick you out easily in a crowded room."

For some reason Lydia found his words pleasing. Especially when Jordan’s cheeks pinkened from the praise. It _did_ feel good to know that Jordan truly had treasured her gift. She had to wonder though how many times must Jordan have opened it that Peter knew her features as well as he claimed—claimed? He had indeed already proven it by their meeting.

She finished off her ice and tossed the spoon and container into one of the receptacles for trash; resuming her much firmer grasp on her parasol. In a pleasant sort of silence they pass the aviary full of loudly calling and brightly colored birds. As they moved on she and Jordan began telling Peter of London, of the things they thought he should do while he was here. Secretly she found herself hoping that she and Jordan would be invited on many of the outings; she found herself wanting to know what Peter thought of them.

The more the three of them spoke the more she realized how much she enjoyed being in Peter’s company, especially with Jordan. There was an ease to the conversation as they moved from cage to cage that nearly took her aback. She was hardly ever so open about herself with a near stranger, yet Peter managed to even get her to speak briefly on her mathematical work.

She was now arm in arm with Jordan as they walked, passing by and through the crush of London from high to low. One could come just to stare at the people she felt certain. As they went deeper down the main path they moved from the more exotic animals to those more common across Europe. Including an enclosure of wolves.

As they stood in front of it and watched as the wolves paced back and forth she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Peter looked unhappy. "What's the matter?" She didn't think anyone should be unhappy at this moment.

He gestured at the wolves. "Them. Nothing wild should ever be caged like that."

Now she found herself frowning. "What if they weren't born wild, and this is all they've ever known?" An interesting question from a philosophical standpoint certainly.

"Being born in captivity doesn't mean they're born without instincts and drives. Or urges. Being born in captivity doesn't make them _tame_." In that moment Peter looked _different_ , a...vitality filling him and drawing her in like iron filings to a lodestone.

She felt Jordan’s grip on her arm tighten, and turning her head to him she noticed how he was staring almost dead ahead, almost as if he was afraid to pay attention to Peter at that moment. How strange, and yet Lydia also found herself intrigued; finding herself reminded of some of Jordan’s comments in his letters from Greece about dreams. Perhaps when they returned home she could begin to try and extract them—he had said in his letters that she could try.

In an effort to distract them all—for she found herself doubting that Peter had failed to pick up on her and Jordan’s responses—she spoke again. “Tell me Peter, do you know any good ghost stories?” She didn’t think Allison would mind too much if she invited someone unknown to her small soiree.  

“I must say that I do not. Cerebus is too good at his work and not many ghosts abound.” He gave her a wry smile as they left the wolves behind. His casual Classical reference gave her a start; coming unexpectedly. It made a sort of sense that he would know the history of his own country, but she didn’t think someone, even of the Orthodox faith, would mention something so pagan outside of a discussion of such things.

“Well then,” Jordan spoke from beside her, having caught on to her intention. “Perhaps a story that will chill the blood then?”

“What odd questions.” Despite the comment she could clearly see that Peter was smiling. “But yes, I do believe I know some of those. Whyever for?”

“My good friend is holding a small soiree tomorrow,” Lydia explained. “The conceit is that we shall be telling each other stories meant to terrify; much like Mary Shelley and her companions once did. I had simply thought that if you were not already engaged tomorrow evening you could join us.”

Peter inclined his head. “I thank you for the invitation, and will gladly accept.” There was a strange sort of triumph in his demeanor, or at least that was how she read it, but she found she could not truly deride it, since she was feeling much the same at him having agreed.

-

Allison found herself wringing her hands, a habit she detesting seeing in other women let alone herself, as she waited for her friends to arrive.

Most of her nerves stemmed from the fact that they would be well and truly unchaperoned; her parents having gone to bring her grandfather in from their country home. They had left her aunt Katherine in charge of the house, but aunt Kate had left not two hours ago, kissing Allison on the cheek and telling her to have fun.

Lydia, being married, could chaperone her and Scott; but Allison had only recall the books her best friend had lent her and wondered if she _wanted_ to be chaperoned. Proof enough that she would need it.

A knock on the doors gave her a start, and she found herself rushing to the doors, even though they had a maid to answer. Despite her hurry the maid still got there first, so Allison came into the entryway to see said maid taking Lydia and Jordan’s coats and hat.

“Allison!” Lydia nearly glided to her in a rustle of skirts with a large smile. They shared a _bis_ and Lydia pulled away enough to link arms with her. “I am sorry for being such a poor friend since the wedding.”

A fond smile pulled at Allison’s lips. “Nonsense.” Lydia was married now, an excellent excuse to not be cordial with your friends for a time. “Good evening Jordan. I hope you both are well.”

“Well enough as could be expected Miss Allison,” he leaned down and gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek. “I hope you have been well also.” As he straightened he gave Lydia a Significant Look, which only served to make Allison curious.

“Yes,” she answered with a smile.

Lydia gave a familiar huffing sigh. “I fear I must apologize again Allison, for I invited someone without consulting you.”

Now Allison’s curiosity was firmly piqued as she lead them towards the drawing room to wait for everyone else. “Who?” She didn’t think it was one of Jordan’s co-workers, and she and Lydia had nearly all the same friends; so whom Lydia might have invited escaped her.

“Peter Dimitriou, he’s recently arrived in London and Lydia thought he should make the acquaintance of her friends.” Jordan answered, sounding fond; which Allison found pleased her, Lydia deserved to be appreciated for who she was after all.

Allison gave a small frown, the name ringing familiar, but from where. _Ah_. “The man you worked for in Greece Jordan?”

She got a nod in response. That would raise the number in their party to seven, which felt a nicer number all around. Once they were in the drawing room Allison rang for another of the maids and told her to put another setting on the table as well as have someone bring them tea. “How was your bridal tour?” She knew they hadn’t gone to see family, which made her all the more curious.

“Wonderful.” Lydia took the seat next to Jordan, her hand coming out to rest on his arm. “We went down to Brighton, the beach was lovely this time of year.”

There was a faint stab of jealousy, Allison knowing her own bridal tour would be spent mainly in France visiting what few relatives had chosen to bear the Revolution and Napoleon instead of fleeing.

The door sounded again, but this time Allison didn’t stand, waiting instead for the maid to bring the new guests to them.

It was Scott and Stiles, and Allison found herself glancing at Lydia for help. Her friend only arched one eyebrow before smiling at the two young men. “It’s good to see you both.”

Since Allison was ostensibly the hostess she stood and went to them both. “I’m glad you both could make it.” Feeling a hint of daring she leaned in a kissed Scott’s cheek. She felt certain her cheeks were fire red when she pulled away. She wasn’t the only one, since Scott’s Spanish heritage still showed red cheeks. Stiles rolled his eyes at the both of them, and after saying hello went over to the tea service and poured himself a cup before going to Lydia and Jordan.

“Where’s your aunt?” She wasn’t sure if Scott was asking because he wanted that barrier, or if he was afraid aunt Kate would come jumping out of the drapes and terrify him when he least expected it—the latter image made her bite back laughter.

The daring still within her she looped her arm through Scott’s, that on the whole that was well within their bounds, and began walking him towards everyone else. “She left some time ago, I confess I have no idea as to where however.”

“Oh.” He managed to look both disappointed and pleased.

Lydia gave a light laugh. “Alright, I shall play the chaperone. If only so you’ll stop trying to ravish each other.” Allison knew Lydia was teasing the both of them; but the fondness in her tone was inescapable.

Stiles snorted. “Please, Scott is definitely not the ravishing type...in both senses of the word.”

Next to Lydia Jordan rolled his eyes, while Lydia gave Stiles a droll look. “Who said I was talking about Scott?”

Thank Heavens there was another knock at the door, saving her and Scott from any more such fond jibes. She fought to control her blush, and managed to by the time there was another knock at the door, while a maid let Isaac into the drawing room. Allison was certain there were some who would have found it in bad taste to invite a man you refused to a party; but she truly believed since then she and Isaac had grown closer as friends, and he never failed to be a gentleman.

With his entrance another round of hellos filled the room. A few moments later the drawing room doors open again.

The man who walked in was older than Allison expected, but still young to be sure. Quite handsome, with his dark hair and goatee and bright, clear blue eyes. He wore impeccable evening dress as well, that seemed to draw attention to his non-aristocratic form—but perhaps nobles were not so idle in Greece as they were here in England.

Jordan went to him, and after they shook hands and exchanged a quiet greeting, he led him over to everyone else. “Everyone, this is Peter Dimitriou. Peter, may I have the pleasure of introducing Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Isaac Lahey, and our lovely hostess Allison Argent. You’ve already met Lydia.”

Dimitriou smiled, and gave a smart bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you all.”

Everyone else responds in greeting, and with the niceties done with they could attempt to dive into serious conversation. Allison knew they could do it as friends, but with Mr. Dimitriou in the equation she wasn’t sure how things would go.

Not that they had much time to find out as the butler came in and announced that supper was ready.

The meal itself passed in a pleasant haze of conversation and good food. At it’s end—if they had had any sort of ‘mature’ supervision—they would have split for port and sherry. but as a whole they retired to the study where a fire was already crackling merrily in the fireplace. Allison had the good manners to serve up the port and sherry herself, she offered cigars as well, though none of the men accepted—most likely in deference to Lydia and herself.

Once they were all settled Allison felt herself at a slight loss of how to proceed. They all knew why they were here, but it fell on her as hostess to begin. She might as well start as she hoped to go on. “I do hope you’ve all brought a story that will frighten.” It might be true that parties such as this were more often held around All Hallows, but Allison had perceived no reason why they should not happen any time of the year.

“I didn’t,” Scott piped up. Drawing everyone’s attention to him. His cheeks pinkened and he averted his gaze. “I, I couldn’t think of one.”

Stiles took a sip from his port. “No two headed calves?”

“That’s hardy scary Stiles,” Lydia answered.

“No,” Stiles shot back. “It’s damned unnerving.”

Allison cleared her throat before they could really get into it, otherwise there’d be no stopping the two of them. “I do believe I shall start in the tale telling.” She drew herself up in her seat and taking a fortifying sip of sherry hoped she remembered the story correctly.

“As it was told to me this story is a true as you or I. That it is in fact the history of the Argent family, and how we became known far and wide in France.

“Centuries ago now, in the providence of Gévaudan a young woman watching her father’s bulls saw something in the nearby woods. For a time she thought whatever it might be would exit and approach her, but the bulls kept charging it and soon it was gone.”

She took another sip, a good dramatic pause. “Later that day La Bête still claimed it’s first victim, one Janne Boulet. His body was found in a fallow field, half eaten and barely recognizable to his mother.

“It was the first of many attacks over the next year. Children, women, men, none were safe from La Bête. The fear of it spread across the whole province.

“By then many had seen La Bête to give a good accounting of it. A wolf easily the size of a young man, they said, with no tail and eyes as red as hellfire. As the deaths began to rise, even Paris heard the tale.

“The king sent his best hunters to catch it, but while they managed to kill many wolves, none were La Bête.

“Béatrice Boulet, still mourning the loss of her son, had a plan.”

By now she had everyone, even Mr. Dimitriu, hooked; heady to realize. “She went to the church of her town and had the father bless anew the family’s silver cross. Then she melted it down, reforming it into roundshot for her dead husband’s musket.

“Thus armed she dressed herself as a man and went into the woods, swearing to God that she would find La Bête and slaughter it as it had her son.

“It took her many long hard weeks, during which La Bête still killed and brought terror to the countryside. In the end, even though she lost an arm to the beast she shot it, once in the heart, and once in the head.

“With her one good arm she dragged La Bête out of the woods and into her village. Once her fellows realized what she had done a great cry rose up and she was called a hero. The king himself graced their tiny slice of the world to see the creature burned. In reward he granted her a rank in the nobility, and a promising marriage as well. His final gift was to change her name from Boulet to Agent, in honor of the silver she used to kill La Bête.”

Finishing off her sherry Allison relaxed into her seat. “And that is the end of my tale.”

For a few seconds there was only the crackled of the fire, then Dimitriou spoke. “That is quite the tale, I certainly enjoyed it.” Despite his words there was an odd look in his eye, that Allison could not quite discern the meaning of. No matter, he was allowed his peculiarities.

“Who shall be next then?” Allison soldiered on.

Isaac jumped in, telling a quite harrowing tale of a woman who was apparently haunted by all the ghosts her husband’s weapons had killed, and the only way to keep them pacified was for her to eternally build onto her mansion.

Then the tale-telling passed to Lydia, who spoke a much more gruesome version of Mr. Fox, than Allison was accustomed to hearing. It did terrify as promised, so one could not really complain.

It seemed natural that the next story should then be Jordan’s, but the man excused himself to use the toilet, so Dimitriou offered his own. “Though it is more a cautionary tale than one meant to frighten.”

“I dare say it shall be enjoyed one way or the other Mr. Dimitriou.” Lydia responded with a smile.

The man inclined his head, another curious look in his eye. “I will do my best to entertain. Mrs. Parrish. I would dislike falling short of your expectations.”

Lydia’s smile turned strange, but she didn’t speak a reply. Allison found herself vaguely bewildered, and from Scott’s expression she was not the only one.

“My tale takes place in the Greece of ancient times, when we were only city states and not a country. Once, long ago Symrna, a princess of Syria, fell in love with her father, king Theias. Despite knowing it was wrong she could not help herself. By chance and luck she won a favor from Aphrodite and using it spent a night with her father, who thought her nothing more than another serving woman.” At this point Jordan returned, taking his place next to Lydia, Dimitriou barely seemed to notice. Allison, for her part found herself both appalled and intrigued.

“Her deception was not to last. When her father discovered what she had done he flew into a rage and went after her with the intent to kill her. She ran, but her father was a warrior and she a princess. In terror she called out to the gods to save her, and Aphrodite found it in her heart to feel pity for Symrna; turning the girl into a myrrh tree.

“Nine months later a child burst from the tree.

“Even as a baby Adonis was the most beautiful man in the world. Even Aphrodite fell in love with him, taking him in and raising him as her own. Time passed, and Adonis grew in all ways. Aphrodite’s love for him grew as well.

“Now others were beginning to notice as well, including Ares.” Allison knew enough of Greek mythology that she could guess where this was going, and no wonder Dimitriou called it a cautionary tale.

“Fearing for Adonis’ life Aphrodite sent him to the Underworld, trusting Despoina to care for him.” Not wanting to interrupt the story Allison bit back the urge to ask who ‘Desponia’ was; feeling as if that was a goddess she should know.

“She did not expect for Aristi Cthonia to fall in love with him as well, even if her lord husband, Hades, still held her heart. When Aphrodite returned to bring him back to the surface Despoina refused to give him up.

“Worried that if the goddesses weren’t appeased there would be another war Zeus decreed that Adonis would spend three months with Aphrodite, three with Despoina, and three where he would. Six months passed without much incident, but when it came time for Adonis’ three months he surprised them by choosing to spend them on his own.

“One day while he was hunting a boar the boar got the best of him and gored his side. Aphrodite rushed to his side and held him as he passed. She took his blood and sprinkled it on the ground, creating the anemone.

“While Aphrodite mourned Despoina and Hades welcomed Adonis as an honored guest to their nightly table. And that is my tale.” He took a sip from his port and relaxed back into his chair.

“Who’s Despoina and Aristi Cthonia? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of either of them?” Stiles voiced the question Allison was sure they were all thinking.

All perhaps Lydia, who answered before Dimitriou could. “They are use names for Persephone. To the Greeks it was considered taboo to speak her name outside of special occasions.”

“Certainly peculiar,” Isaac chimed in. Allison had to agree.

“That’s all well and good, but I think it’s my time to tell a story now.” Stiles spoke again, before diving headfirst into a blood chilling story of a man being buried alive.

Like after Allison’s story there was quiet, though this one seemed more horrified than bewildered. Allison found herself content not to press Jordan for his story just yet, perfectly content to let the terror sit for a moment before moving onto something fresher.

Jordan, however, spoke up before she had a chance to inquire as to his going. “It falls to me to wrap it all up then?

“I’m going to tell a tale that was popular among the boys at the orphanage, even though the nuns frowned upon us sharing such ‘superstitious’ nonsense. Does everyone here know what a Changeling is?”

Allison felt better that she wasn’t the only one who shook her head, in fact she was in the majority.

“A Changeling is when a fairy steals a human, usually a child but sometimes an adult, and leaves behind an ugly and misshapen fairy child in return, cloaked in an illusion to appear as the stolen person of course. We would tell each other stories like this because, while we might have been orphaned, at least we didn’t have it as bad as someone believed to be a Changeling.

“Bridget Cleary was unusual among Irish women in that she did not truly need her husband to support her, she owned chickens and had a sewing machine as well. Some say this made him bitter towards her, other that they loved each other true. Either way it didn’t help what happened next.

“One day in early March she went off to see her uncle in the next village over. Yet halfway through the journey she turned around and went home. When her husband asked after it she told him she felt queer and put herself to bed.

“Over the next few days her chill grew worse, so much so that her husband called over the local priest and had him perform Last Rites on her. Their neighbors thought her sickness of another cause all together, and came to him with folk remedies, claiming that the thing in the bed was not his wife, but a Changeling.

“Somehow they convinced him, and he let them dose his wife with foxglove tinctures, and all other sort of things thought to reveal a Changeling. After each they would ask her to declare that she was Bridget Cleary, and each time she refused; perhaps out of obstinacy, or for some other reason. Of course each refusal only served to further convince the people that she was indeed a Changeling.

“After a few days of this her husband himself grew somewhat unhinged. On the final night of the ordeal he dragged her from the bed, and in the eyes of everyone, beat her against the floor, demanding his wife back. When that did not work he took her to the fire, threatening to toss her in. Still she wouldn’t speak, perhaps because she was already dead, and in a fit he doused her torso and head in lamp oil and threw her on the flames.

“No one knows if she was dead already or not, but if not the fire finished her off. The villagers wrapped her in a shroud and gave her a shallow grave. Days later when her body was found the Police began to search for her husband. Finding him near a supposed fairy hill, waiting for the fair folk to return his wife to him.” Jordan fell quite, signifying the end of his story.

Allison felt certain she might lose her supper if she wasn’t careful. She didn’t expect such horrors to come from civilized society, even the Irish; it was, well...stomach turning.

Lydia had quite a different reaction however. She stood, cheeks flush, and said, “that was in poor taste Jordan.” Before storming off.

While Allison found herself confused—too caught up still in the story—Jordan got up immediately and followed after her.

It was only when Dimitriou got up to follow—for no reason she could discern—that she realized why Lydia had disapproved. After all she herself was a woman who had means to live without her husband’s support, although why Lydia thought Jordan might turn on her like that was beyond Allison.

“Don’t bother,” Stiles spoke in response to Dimitriou standing. “Jordan can manage her well enough; promise a shiny bauble and she’ll be right as rain.”

“Stiles!” Allison felt insulted on Lydia’s behalf.

Dimitriou sat however, but his gaze was unfriendly as as he looked to Stiles. “I should think such a slight would take a more sincere apology than that.” Allison felt certain she could not have said it better herself.

When Lydia and Jordan returned they appeared reconciled, but Allison did not begrudge them when they made excuses and departed.

Since there was no reason why everyone else should remain after that, they also left. As Allison retired for bed she felt as if tonight had been a success, but at a cost she was not sure of.

-

Lydia was nearly done brushing her hair out for the night when Jordan entered the bedroom, looking nervous, but resolved. Deciding skipping a few strokes would do her hair no harm Lydia set down her brush and turned to look at him. “Jordan? You truly don’t need to apologize again.” Despite her words her earlier frustration twisted at her gut.

Instead of replying he began preparing for bed himself before sitting on the bed and looking at her and shaking his head. “This isn’t another apology. I have something I need to tell you, to make up for my thoughtlessness before.” There was something inherently worrying about his tone.

“What is it?” She wanted to go to him, but felt glued to her seat; some undefined fear keeping her in place.

As if full of energy he got up and began pacing. “It’s about Peter, we...I…” He raked a hand through his hair, a sound of frustration leaving him at not being able to articulate what he wanted to say.

She kept quiet, letting him work through it himself, but in her mind she fretted.

“While I was in Greece.” He sat back on the bed, with enough force that the comforter puffed up behind him. “I found myself having dreams, of a…” A blush stained his cheeks. “Sexual nature, not of you, like usual.” Now Lydia was blushing as well, but more from pleasure than any real embarrassment. “But well, of Peter.”

The words felt like an electric shock. She knew, of course, that there were men who prefered the company of men over women; and that they often married to hide such illegal indiscretions. She had not thought Jordan among them. Yet she would think a man of that sort would be disinclined to perform his duties as a husband; unless Jordan was an _excellent_ liar that wasn’t the case.

“Then.” His blush deepened. “The day before I was to leave, Peter thought to show me how to properly use the bath house on his property.” She would guess it was much in the Roman fashion then, hot rooms, pools of varying temperatures, and all done in the nude. “At the very end he took me to a natural hot spring and he ended up...” Once more his blush deepened, and some absent part of Lydia wondered if he would have an apoplexy. “He brought me to release with his hand.”

Once more Lydia felt shocked, if for completely different reasons. Because his words conjured up images that, instead of angering her as they should—Jordan had been _unfaithful_ to her, anger was the correct response—made her _want_.

Almost without pause she began castigating herself, for what woman would want _that_?

Lydia had long since learned she was not ‘normal’ by society's standards. She wrote well received mathematical papers—if under a man’s name—she was passionate about history, and taught herself languages for _fun_. She had lied, and even stolen, to better educate herself about her own body and sex.

Her cooking was mediocre at best, and she could not sew or knit if her life depended on it. If she could afford it she would happily pay someone else to clean the flat. She was hardly in any sort of rush to have children. All in all she was certainly not the Angel in the House that society expected her to be.

Yet she had apparently fallen to a level of deviancy that even she could not comprehend with Jordan’s embarrassed, and slightly shamed, admission. More than compounded by the fact that she had more than happily flirted with Peter, despite her marriage and great love for Jordan.

“Lydia?” Jordan’s tentative question gave her a start.

She gave her head a small shake as if to center herself, “sorry. I…” The words clogged in her throat, her own shame, dying anger, and unspoken norms keeping them in. Standing quickly, so quickly in fact that she felt lightheaded for a brief second, she left the room. He deserved the honesty she’d vowed him and if she could not get the words out than she would force them out in some fashion.

“Lydia!” She could hear Jordan’s footsteps behind her and she nearly laughed, he must think she was storming out on him. Why would he think otherwise, when she couldn’t find it in her to speak?

She opened the cupboard where they kept their spirits and pulling out the jenever poured herself a half a glass full. Far more than one should ever pour, but she saw no better way to loosen her damn tongue than to get herself slightly drunk.

Keeping her back to Jordan for now, she didn’t want to see the hurt that her actions must be causing him on his face, she raised the glass in bitter salute to society then tossed it back as if it were no better than bad wine.

Juniper swamped her mouth, and even though she had consumed it all she swore she could still smell it in the glass. She found herself nearly retching at the cloying dryness of that much jenever. Despite her apparent coldness Jordan still rushed to her side and she waved him off, already it was passing. Despite the fact that she knew the alcohol couldn’t already be affecting her she felt freer and looser of tongue. As if the mere consumption of it was enough for what parts of her that still sought approval from her peers, and the world at large, to give up. Thus bolstered she finally turned to Jordan.

He looked as much a wreck as she had feared, and yet he was still worried for her. Going to him she took his face in her hands and gave him the best smile she could manage. “I’m not mad at you,” oh what a relief to finally speak those words! What a lightening of her own spirits to see most of the tension leave Jordan.

“I _should_ be, but it seems I can’t be.” Rising up on her tiptoes she gave him a featherlight kiss. “I…” If she was in for the penny then why not the whole cursed pound as well? “I do believe if I were given the chance I would do the same.” Even the thought of it made her insides squirm in arousal.

Now Jordan was the one clearly shocked, he pulled their faces away, but did not move. “Lydia? What?” She felt no small measure of relief again to find no anger in his tone, only surprise...and curiosity.

 _Now_ she felt the jenever begin it’s devilish work. “Tonight.” She could feel her cheeks heat. “I flirted with him, while you were off using the toilet.” Her cheeks must be full red now she was sure. “I don’t think the others noticed.” Otherwise she’s certain they’d have had objections to it. “He certainly did, and reciprocated.” Heat of a different sort filled her as she recalled his words and the intensity of his gaze.

“There’s something irresistible about him isn’t there?” Jordan asked, shoulders shaking slightly in what she realized was amusement. “He seems to have drawn us both in against our better judgements.”

An amused smile of her own danced across her lips. “ _Our_ better judgements? I do believe I’m more worried about what society might think of us if such a revelation came to light.” Having affairs might be the entertainment of the aristocracy, but it was still frowned upon in people of Lydia and Jordan’s standing. Though could one really call it an affair if you were both involved with the same person?

“Yet here we are, talking about it as if we have already decided what we will do.” Jordan wore a wry smile well.

He also had the right of it, but in her case that might be the drink talking. “Then what sort of people are we? To want such a thing that is certainly far beyond the pale.” She could just imagine the outrage of her friends if she admitted such longings to them, how they would berate her for being unfaithful to Jordan, even if only in thought. Allison may have said it in one of her letters, but Lydia knew that had been in jest. This, this was serious.

Which she found didn’t sit right with her, there was no harm in thought; it was the deed itself that was wrong. There would be no room in the jails and prisons of England if they arrested everyone who had only thought of killing someone, or stealing, or any other crime. She made herself shake off those thoughts, although they made clear that if this became more than talk it would be something she had to keep from her friends; much as it pained her to realize it.

“People,” Jordan responded simply, his own hands rising to cup her cheeks. “What we do behind our closed doors is none of the damned business of others, not unless we choose to make it as such.”

She managed a faint smile. “Thank you, for telling me. I’m sorry for what I did this evening.”

He leaned down and gave her a soft kiss, then guided them over to a chair. “Thank you for telling me that.” He sat then, with a soft tug pulled her onto his lap, making her smile as she leaned her forehead against his. “I’m sorry I kept it from you. You deserved to know sooner.”

“I forgive you for not telling me.” Her smile grew a little wicked. “Now tell me more about these dreams, Mr. Parrish. I find myself intrigued.”

A furious blush creeped up his cheeks and she laughed softly.

-

Jordan’s stomach felt a tangle of nerves as he waited for Stiles’ old teacher Dr. Deaton to arrive; the man had said he would call today. Lydia had offered to stay with him, but he had encouraged her to keep her appointment with Allison.

After all this strange outward fever, it was only everyone else who seemed to think him overly warm—he himself felt, _normal_ —could certainly be nothing. He hoped it was nothing.

To distract himself he did some tidying, putting away the bottle of jenever Lydia had gotten out last night; the both of them had quite willingly tumbled into bed after Lydia’s request. He'd murmured everything of his dreams he could remember as he took her slow.

By the end of it they had both agreed that they wanted to be intimate with Peter; but Jordan had no idea how they might go about breaching that subject. Peter had said that if Jordan wanted to pursue things further than he should talk with Lydia then find him. For all he knew Peter’s offer, such as it was, extended only to himself and not Lydia.

A firm knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts, with a sigh he left off standing in front of the liquor cabinet and went to open the door.

The man on the other side was African, tall, with a shaved head and genial features. “Dr. Deaton?”

Jordan got a smile in response. “Yes.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card, which he offered to take. “Stiles thought I may be able to help you?”

Jordan’s own smile in response was tentative as he took the card. “I hope so, doctor.” He stepped aside and let the other man in.

-

Scott squinted in the dim night, though he knew it would do nothing to improve his vision in the usual London murk. It made him feel better as he passed between lampposts.

It wasn’t his usual choice to do night house calls, but the maid who’d called him had sounded desperate enough about her mistress’s lap dog, that he’d found himself more worried about what might happen to the maid than the dog if the woman found out. So he’d gone.

Luckily it was only that the poor boy had eating something it shouldn’t have, easy enough to purge it from the dog’s system—though Scott doubted that anyone would want that glass and paste earring now. The maid had been very grateful, a good amount of notes resting in his breast pocket. Which he appreciated, because it turned out getting married was more expensive than he’d thought it would be—even with the Argents gladly paying for most of it.

A canine growl broke his train of thought and Scott paused.

Wild dogs weren’t unusual, even here in London; a terrible fact of life really. He also knew the dog was probably hungry, and would be easy enough to scare away. He didn’t even bother setting his kit down as he waved his arms about, stomping his feet. “Hey! Scat!”

The growling stopped and Scott ceased his movements, mentally making a note to telephone the dog catcher when he reached home. He resumed walking, stepping once more in between street lamps.

Something heavy and coarsely furred crashed into him, knocking him to the ground.

For a brief second he was stunned, but instinct still managed to make him attempt to hit the beast of a dog with his kit. It snarled at him, red— _red?_ —eyes flashing as it bared teeth that looked more at home on a wolf than a dog. _Did one escape from the zoological society?_

Not that he had much time to worry about that, what with claws shredding his coat and shirt. Scott squeezed his eyes shut, finding himself resigned to death, but regretful that he didn’t do more in his life.

The canine’s...canines pierced his flesh, followed by the rest of the beast’s teeth.

Then it was gone. Leaving Scott befuddled and confused as blood dripped from his wound. With his free hand he pushed himself upright, grunting in pain. Gingerly he felt at the wound, his medical experience might be more animal than human; but a bite was a bite. It felt clean and precise, not at all the actions of a rabid, starving animal. Which was disconcerting.

He forced himself to get up, he didn’t have any rabies vaccine or Ormskirk medicine on him; getting home was vital.

His side ached like hell, even moreso when he walked. He made it, quickly lighting the lamps in his bedroom to give him enough light to see by. Taking off the rest of his ruined clothes—but the notes were still good—he hobbled over to his mirror and inspected his side, hoping he wouldn’t have to stitch himself up.

Despite what he’d felt earlier the wound didn’t look all that bad. For which he was grateful. Continuing in his hobbling he picked up a lamp and made his way to the tiny study he had. Opening his lockbox he pulled out a velvet lined box, which contained vials of Pasteur’s vaccine, as well as his jar of Ormskirk medicine. Grabbing bandages he poured the medicine over them and letting that soak he pulled out a needle and inserted one of his vaccine vials.

He grimaced when the needle pierced his skin but bore it and quickly depressed the liquid into him. That done he slapped on the bandage.

Now to deal with the pain…

Getting himself a glass of water he went back to his study and took out his laudanum—just as good on animals as humans—and measured out twenty five drops. After stirring to make sure it was properly mixed he carried it back to his room. Only after changing into his pajamas and getting into bed did he drank it down.

Tomorrow he’d go see Stiles, at least talk to him about it. Even though his best friend was a coroner he knew Stiles would still jump at the chance to inspect a live patient. Before he could think much more on it the laudanum took hold and he slipped into painless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you'd like an alternate POV of some of the Zoo scene you can check it out [here!](http://kaelthewriting.tumblr.com/post/130599526746/pov)
> 
> Janne Boulet really is the name of La Bête's first victim; I decided to go more w/ the original story than what we were giving in TW (though TBH that one's pretty vague to begin with).
> 
> And yes, the story Isaac tells is of the Winchester mansion (or as it's called now the Winchester Mystery House), which Sarah began construction on in 1884.
> 
> Peter's tale is my own retelling of the Adonis myth, and is very much Not Based On Fact.
> 
> And Jordan's Tale of Bridget Cleary is very much True, if taking place IRL a few years after this story. I did change a detail or two, though it's really unclear of what happened in those days before her death. If you'd like a slightly different version (or the one mine is based on) I highly recommend you listen to the Lore podcast episode "Black Stockings".
> 
> Ormskirk medicine is, from what I can tell, an early treatment/vaccine of rabies, in the timeline of the story Pasteur's basically just come out with the rabies vaccine, and it wouldn't be that readily available to most folks, so it made sense for Scott to have both. But OM would be more like a poultice, so you have it soaked into your bandages instead of injecting or applying it directly to the wound.


	9. Interlude IV

“Should we be worried?”

“Hardly. That was centuries ago, if anything they’ve grown long in tooth. Nobles today only spend their time in idleness and frivolity; no wars or raiders to fight in or against.”

“Still…”

“Still what Aristides? No. They might know of our kind. The tale has grown in the telling, and as full of misinformation as everything else.”

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t worry. I should hope there is plenty here to catch your interest beyond the long ago past.”

“Yes. It’s harder than I thought it would be, coming back.”

“I dare say you’re resisting worse urges.”

“I think you should be more focused on possible dangers, not the Parrishes.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a pessimist, you might have been the reason I came here, but they’re the reason I’m staying. That’s enough of that, when you’re my age _then_ you can judge me. Now sleep, and don’t let me catch you trying to sneak out again. I’d rather not have more trouble than I like.”


	10. Chapter 5

Lydia comforted herself that if she hadn’t been with Jordan during his first examination yesterday, then she was with him during this second one. By the end of it she found herself strangely dissatisfied. Dr. Deaton appearing to have found nothing new about Jordan’s condition. She dearly hoped he was not holding back on information solely because she was present.

Shortly after Deaton left there was another knock on the door. Lydia frowned as she went to answer it, not sure who it could be. None of her friends had said they would call on her today. Although she guessed it could be Deaton, having forgotten something, but he seemed too meticulous a man for that to be the case.

Feeling slightly apprehensive she opened the door. “Peter.” Relief filled her pleased welcome upon seeing him at the door. “We weren’t expecting you.” She wouldn’t turn him away for that. “Come in.”

He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling as he took off his hat and entered. “Apologies, I was out for a walk and thought I might stop in. Is everything alright? I thought I saw a doctor leaving here.”

“He’s not truly a doctor,” Lydia felt as if she had to explain. “He was one of Stiles’ mentors and specializes in...unusual illnesses.”

Jordan frowned at her when he stepped back into the parlor. “Really, I don’t think we need to fuss over it anymore Lydia. I feel _fine_ , despite my apparent fever.” He blinked upon noticing Peter. “Hello.” He gave a smile.

“Fever?” Peter asked, sounding genuinely worried and curious as he came fully into the flat.

“Would you like something to drink Peter?” Lydia forced herself to ask, finding herself aware of her and Jordan’s talk last night now that the object of it was before them.

He shook his head as Jordan spoke up. “I really do believe it’s nothing Peter. While I was on my way home I fell ill of a fever, and now it seems my body is bent on continuing to run at that greater temperature.” An accurate enough description Lydia supposed, though Jordan failed to mention what such heightened temperature would do to his body, let alone his brain, in the long run.

A second later Peter was in front of Jordan, the back of one of his suddenly ungloved hands against Jordan’s forehead. “You do not feel all that warm.” Despite her interest in Peter Lydia didn’t find herself comforted much by his words; after all why should she trust it above that of a doctor?

Now that they were with Peter again she felt there was a much more important thing to discuss. “It is good that you came. We had hoped to call on you at your place later.” She arched a pointed eyebrow at Jordan before taking one of the chairs before the fireplace.

Peter, then Jordan, followed after. “Yes,” Jordan continued. “I…” An embarrassed flush crossed her husband’s cheeks, and Lydia couldn’t help her fond smile. “That is to say, Lydia and I spoke about you last night, specifically of...what occurred, in Greece.”

A smile of his own played at Peter’s lips, but Lydia could somehow read that it was just as fond as her own. “I see.” He leaned back into his chair, looking far more relaxed than Lydia herself felt. “All is well I take it.” She found it strange that that was not a question, but a satisfied statement, to which Jordan gave a hesitant smile of his own.

“Yes Peter.” Jordan responded anyways. “We spoke more of you as well, and what you had said to me.”

Peter’s smile grew more self-satisfied, but Lydia found she couldn’t be offended. “I am glad you did. Was an agreement made?”

Lydia nodded. “Yes.” Now she felt a blush of her own creeping up. “We decided we would would like to see where you would take us. That is, if you would have us both?” That was the part that tangled her in knots. She did not doubt for a second that taking on a lover would change Jordan’s affections for her, but she found herself saddened that there might be a part of his life that she was interested in knowing yet might be cut off from.

Peter stood and went over to her, kneeling and taking her hands within his own larger ones. “Of course, Lydia sweet.” He raised one of her hands and kissed the back of it. “I enjoy the pleasurable company of a woman as equally as I do a man. To be granted both is a treasure I hold dear, especially when given by a couple such as yourselves.” He turned his head so he could make this declaration to Jordan as well and Lydia felt her heart overflow with affection at the words and the sentiment.

“But,” he stood again, this time moving in front of the fireplace. “There is a strange cast I must bring to this affair before we go much further. For honesty in all things is best.” He rolled his shoulders as if preparing himself for something. “I am not human, I have not been for some time.” He threw his hands wide. “If you should like I can well prove it here and now.”

For a moment Lydia didn’t, _couldn’t_ , comprehend what he was saying. Yet nearly at once Jordan leapt out of his seat. “ _You_ were one of the wolves I saw that night?” He sounded both angry and confused.

In answer Peter nodded. “Yes. How well do you know the tale of Lycaon?”

The question kicked Lydia’s brain into working again. “He was a king in Arcadia who thought to test Zeus by putting the flesh of his youngest son in the dinner. In punishment Zeus turned him, and his other fifty sons into wolves. You cannot think we’d believe for a second that you are thousands of years old.” Bad enough she was indulging this delusion and not turning him out immediately. Taking another lover may have been one thing, but one apparently suited for Bedlam another thing entirely.

“Just so.” Peter inclined his head slightly. “There was a way out if any were strong enough to withstand. Zeus gave us a craving for human flesh, but if we did not consume any in the first nine years we would regain our human shapes, and be able to shift between the two.”

Before Lydia or Jordan could ask any more questions Peter closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Seconds later, as if by magic, there was a dark, giant, tailless wolf in their parlor. Lydia shrank back into her seat, but managed to bite back the desire to scream, while Jordan himself fell back into his seat, shocked.

“It’s alright.” Lydia’s whole body gave a start when she heard Peter’s voice come from the wolf, especially since the wolf’s mouth did not move. “I will not hurt you.” Cautiously he padded over to her, stopping a few inches away; letting her decide whether or not to bridge the gap.

Since her world had already been turned upside down she saw no reason to reach out a shaky hand and place it on the the wolf’s... _Peter’s_ head. His fur was softer than expected, and thick. His bright blue eyes—still Peter’s eyes—closed, and his tongue peaked out of his mouth when Lydia’s nails dug slightly into the skin under the fur. The action was so dog-like and familiar that it made Lydia reflexively let go.

Not that Peter seemed to mind, trotting over to Jordan to let him inspect him. “This is…” Her husband drifted off as words escaped him. Granted Lydia couldn’t fault him in this, she found herself at the same loss.

After Jordan had finished touching Peter’s muzzle and head Peter moved back in front of the fireplace and just as quickly as before he was once again a man, still clothed thank the saints. “There you have it.” Peter’s voice wasn’t uncertain, but there was a faint note to his voice that suggested he wasn’t sure of their response.

“I,” Lydia surprised herself by speaking first. “I do not quite know what to think. I dare say I would not believe it at all if you had not demonstrated.” She turned to Jordan, not exactly seeking comfort or help, but certainly a better way to try and convey herself.

Jordan stood and went to Peter. That close it was easy to tell they were of a height—if Jordan a slight bit taller—and that the two of them standing before the other made a handsome image. “In spite of that I still can’t help but want you.” She watched, captivated as Jordan’s hands rose up and cupped Peter’s face. “Although it is quite something to take in.”

“I understand.” Peter gave a wan smile. “I also did not want you both to walk into this blind.” Bridging the gap Peter put his lips on Jordan’s and Lydia could only stare in wonderment and slight arousal as they kissed.

When they broke apart she could tell Jordan’s breathing was rushed, and his cheeks quite pink. As if he couldn’t resist Peter darted back in to give Jordan another, more brief kiss. Then he pulled away completely, going once more to Lydia. He knelt again, which put them at eye level with each other. “I want you to think on this for a day or two before seeing me again, I want you to be sure this is what you want to pursue before we come to any sort of agreement.”

Lydia found her lips parting as Peter leaned in. Glancing over his shoulder she could see Jordan watching them just as avidly as she had watched him and Peter.

Peter’s lips, when they touched hers, were not as harsh as she expected them to be; and they coaxed her lips open just a little more so that his tongue could slip between them to tease her own slightly. With a sigh Lydia gave into the kiss just as Jordan had given into his. When Peter pulled away, she found herself loathed to let him go. But she did so, wanting to give him the same sort of respect he was giving them.

He stepped away from the both of them, back towards the front door, collecting his hat and gloves. “We you have made your decision come call on me at my hotel.” He gave a formal bow, then let himself out.

-

Stiles found himself pacing his study as he waited for his former mentor to return. This was the husband of one of his good friends after all—he _liked_ Parrish, but on the whole he thought them more friendly acquaintances at best—being worried was probably a good thing. Which hardly helped.

It felt like ages before there was a knock on the door, and Stiles gladly rushed to answer it. Giving a relieved smile when he saw Deaton. “Professor.” He stepped aside to let him in. “How did it go?”

“Strangely,” Deaton replied with that enigmatic smile of his. “Your assessment in your letter was correct. Beyond the rise in his body’s temperature there is nothing wrong with him. It is most peculiar, and makes me wonder if…”

Stiles didn’t get to hear that ‘if’, as there was another knock on his door. This time he frowned, not having expected anyone beyond Deaton. Hoping it was someone he could turn away, otherwise he’d be forced to wait for the rest of Deaton’s prognosis while he entertained—medical talk wasn’t usually fit for polite company.

He was surprised to see it was Scott there on the other side. “Hi.” His best friend smiled. “Can we talk?” He didn’t sound worried, but there was a hint of nervousness in his voice that Stiles found he couldn’t resist.

“Sure.” He gestured Scott in. “Uh, Scott, this is a former mentor of mine Professor Alan Deaton. Professor this is my good friend Scott McCall.”

Deaton nodded. “It is good to meet you Mr. McCall.”

“Likewise,” Scott replied, gingerly taking one of the seats.

Which made Stiles frown all over again. “Did something happen to you?” He took the seat across from Scott, and motioned for Deaton to sit as well. If his friend was hurt than that definitely took precedence over a medical curiosity.

Scott nodded. “Last night. I got bit by a stray dog on my way home from a house call.”

It wasn’t hard to notice the way Deaton’s eyes sharpened at those words. “Would you care to tell us about it Mr. McCall?”

Without any more prompting Scott launched into the brief story. During which Stiles had only eyes for his mentor and the way the man’s face grew graver as Scott reached the end.

“Red eyes you say?”

Scott nodded.

Deaton leaned forward in his seat. “This is an odd question, but did you happen to notice if the dog had a tail or not?”

Scott’s face scrunched in his usual concentration, but in the end he shook his head. “No, it was too dark.”

“Then perhaps we could see the wound?” Stiles found his curiosity piqued; after all what would the status of the dog’s tail have to do with anything of great import?

“Alright.” Scott stood, and soon after so did Stiles, taking his best friend’s coat and shirt as they were handed to him.

The bandage was pale against Scott’s darker skin, and had clearly soaked up some blood since Scott applied it. Slowly Scott picked at the wrappings, certainly afraid of the bandage sticking to the wound.

They came off cleanly, and when the skin of his side was revealed there was nothing there.

Stiles felt torn, on one hand this felt much like the sort of joke Scott might pull. On the other his best friend was a _terrible_ liar, and would have fumbled at least some in his recounting of the tale had he made it up. Swaying Stiles to believe Scott was also the fact that Scott looked as flabbergasted as Stiles felt upon looking at his own side.

“I swear I was bitten!” He shook the bandages still in his hand slightly, as if the fact that they had blood on them should be proof enough.

Deaton stood. “I do not think you are lying Mr. McCall. I only think that your wound has already healed.”

He was certain Scott’s look of bewilderment matched his own. “How can that be possible?” Stiles asked. He knew for a fact that no human healed that fast, no matter how impressive they were.

“The creature that bit him was not a dog, or even a canine of any natural origin. But a werewolf.” As if he hadn’t just said the impossible Deaton pulled out his pipe and began tamping it down. Stiles found himself inclined to laugh, after all werewolves weren’t _real_ , let alone attacking his best friend. Yet he’d known Deaton since he’d first began his studies, the man had a sense of humor—however dry—but he wasn’t one to joke about when it came to medicine.

Scott had no such compunctions, letting loose a bark of laughter before falling back into his seat and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was hallucinating a gothic novel.”

“This is no novel Mr. McCall.” Deaton didn’t look put off by Scott’s derision. “I am being perfectly serious. There have been enough cases of werewolfism over the centuries that to discount them would be the height of foolishness.” He lit his pipe soon filling the room with the comforting smell of tobacco. “Tell me Mr. McCall this morning when you awoke did the world seem...sharper. As if someone had cleaned the window you looked out of?”

Scott frowned, but after a few moments nodded. “It’s strange, but yes. Especially as I was coming here. It was sometimes enough to feel as if my head were splitting apart; other times I felt perfectly normal.”

Deaton nodded. “Your wound of just a few hours ago has already healed when it should still be raw and new. Enhanced senses and rapid healing are both common signs of werewolfism. During the next full moon, if nothing is done to stop it, you will become like the monster that bit you.”

Stiles felt horrified for his friend, unwillingly turned into a monster? He found himself recalling Allison’s tale from last week, of La Bête and how it had slaughtered over a hundred people before her many times great grandmother killed it. Would that happen to Scott too? “How can we keep it from happening?” Scott himself still looked too shocked to take part in the conversation.

“That will require some research. I find I am more worried about the one who bit you. There have been no tales of werewolves ever in England. That one has come out of hiding and made itself at home in a place such as London is...disconcerting.” Deaton took a puff of his pipe.

“Are there other obvious symptoms or signs to look for?” Stiles knew from reading that witches and vampires—were they as real as werewolves?—had ways that they could be identified. He didn’t know enough of werewolves to know if they were the same.

Deaton paced. “The only other one I can recall from my studies is a rise in the body’s temperature…” He stopped and after a moment Stiles thought he had come to same conclusion as his mentor. “Perhaps we had best go see Mr. Parrish together.”

Scott, seeming to finally return to his senses, frowned. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

“Possibly everything,” Deaton replied.

-

Jordan found himself stumbling to one of his chairs, his mind still reeling some from all that he, Lydia, and Peter had just discussed. _A werewolf, Peter was a werewolf_ ; and not only that but one with designs on Jordan’s wife...as well as himself.

It just, his mind boggled as some of the things he had experienced in Greece became less foolish and more fact.

A glass was pressed into his hands, and he looked up to see Lydia standing before him, a glass of her own, with a dram of their good scotch in it, in her hands. His glass held the same as hers if the smell was anything to go by, and he quickly downed it, the alcohol helping clear his head enough to function.

Pleased that he was with her again Lydia took her own seat, taking sips of her own drink. "That was more than I ever imagined it would be.”

“I would think you would be more...worked up over this.” Granted Lydia’s mind was far more clever than most, and it seemed an easy enough jump that it would thus be ‘tougher’. He would like to think his shock was shared.

Her lips twitched. “Oh, it was a shock. It has been quite some time since I read _The Monk_ , but I did not think that things such as that could be real. On the other hand ‘ _There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than_ dreamt of _in your philosophy._ ’”

Of course she would quote Shakespeare at a time like this. A fond smile broke across his face. “The rest of it?” Now that he thought of it he found himself wondering if he was somehow less a man for not becoming offended in seeing his wife passionately kiss another; to be fair though the kiss he and Peter shared was no less emotional.

“I.” Her whole face flushed red, but to her credit she keep his gaze. “I will admit that watching you kiss was..enticing.”

In his trousers his cock began to swell at the images her mind conjured. Standing he went over to her, resting his hands on the arms of the chair and leaning down slightly. “Perhaps we could, let go a little…” He let his words drift off.

Despite the blush still staining her cheeks Lydia smiled and arched up enough to lightly press her lips to his. “I do think, Mr. Parrish, that that is an _excellent_ idea.” Leaning in a little more he deepened the kiss. Intent on taking Lydia to bed and enjoying each other; nevermind that it was probably frowned upon.

Except mere seconds before he was about to scoop her up there was a knock on the door.

He pulled away from her with a very canine growl, which caused Lydia to throw her head back and laugh.

Darting in she gave him a briefer kiss. “You get to answer it this time.” He pulled away and she stood, moving to pick up his glass.

With a sigh he went to the door and opened it. Finding himself worried to see Dr. Deaton, Stiles and Scott before him, all three with serious expressions on their faces. “Is something the matter? Or have you discovered something?” Although why that would require Scott to tell him mystified. Unless Scott’s arrival was wholly divorced from Deaton and Stiles’.

“A bit of both,” Deaton answered. “May we come in?”

“Ah, yes.” He stepped aside to let them pass. “Lydia would you like to prepare some tea for our guests?”

Lydia’s head popped out from the kitchen. “Oh, hello again doctor. Scott, Stiles. Yes dear.” She vanished.

He gestured at the seats before the fireplace, some part of him not pleased that they were speaking to him in the same place that Peter had only a short while before. As if them being here erased something Peter had left behind. “What do you have to tell me?”

Both of Lydia’s friends looked to Deaton, as if asking him to take the lead. The man leaned back in his seat as Jordan took one of the last remaining ones—the one Peter had taken in fact. “As part of his description of your condition Stiles told me that you had recently been to Greece?”

“Yes.” Not that Jordan saw what that had to do with his strange ‘illness’, unless it was something there that had caused it without him knowing.

“While you were there did you see anything...out of the ordinary? Perhaps unexplainable?” Deaton asked.

Something in Deaton’s question set Jordan on edge. As if there was a hidden meaning to them that a wrong answer would reveal something he didn’t mean to. “Not particularly.” Now that he had begun to lie to them, he wondered where it would stop.

“Were you bitten by anything while you were there?” Stiles jumped in, apparently unwilling to remain quiet.

Jordan frowned. “Do you think I have rabies?” Which might explain why Scott was with them if they did.

Scott shook his head. “The symptoms of rabies are completely different from what you’re experiencing Parrish. If you had rabies we would already know.” Hardly reassuring.

“To answer your question, no I wasn’t bitten by any sort of animal. The only time you could say I was ‘bitten’ was when I picked some roses for Lydia during an outing.” He showed them his now healed hands. “Not that I bear any scars from that incident.” He managed to hold in the shiver from the barely there memory of Peter licking his wounds.

Deaton frowned, but Stiles narrowed his eyes. “I think you’re lying,” the young man accused.

“Melchior Anastasiy Stilinski.” Anger was in Lydia’s voice as she returned to them tea service in hand. “I would appreciate it if you did not accuse my husband of lying without proof.” Despite her anger her hands were steady as she set out tea. “If you wish proof of Jordan’s story I still have the roses he picked for me and I can fetch them quite easily.”

“That would be most appreciated Mrs. Parrish,” Deaton answered as he took his tea from her.

Stiffly Lydia ceased playing hostess and left the room, going towards their bedroom where her roses were. Standing Jordan finished serving tea, taking a grateful sip of his own as he sat, letting the strong, astringent taste steady him as the scotch had.

“Why the questions?” Jordan asked, feeling as if he had a right to know what they were trying to imply.

Scott gave a sheepish smile. “Last night I was attacked by a beast. When I told the story to Deaton and Stiles and showed them where I had been bitten, Deaton suggested it wasn’t from a natural sort of creature, and made a guess about your own condition. Which I believe he’s hoping to prove or disprove.” Scott looked at Deaton for confirmation, and the man nodded.

“This sort of creature has never been spotted in England before, and that one might be here now is cause for alarm. I am just hoping to rule out a possibility.” There’s an implication there, that, well, _alarmed_ Jordan. They were talking about werewolves, about _Peter_. Something in Jordan didn’t want to see Peter hurt, ever.

“Here they are,” Lydia announced as she reentered, her roses in hand. Just as Peter promised all those months ago, they’d been preserved beautifully, the white of them just as pristine as when he first picked them. Even though it had been quite some time since they were fresh a faint smell still lingered around them, telling of the land they came from.

She handed them over to Deaton. “Be gentle please, I treasure them.”

“Of course,” Deaton promised as he inspected them. “A wife should always treasure the things her husband gives her.” Jordan could see Lydia’s jaw clench slightly, and found he loved her all the more for her self-control.

The bundle was soon handed over to Stiles, then Scott, who frowned a little as he held them. “There aren’t any thorns.”

“I picked them off as I picked the flowers, so Lydia didn’t have to worry about where she put her hands.” At Jordan’s response a brief, but fond smile quirked Lydia’s lips; before she schooled it back into her vaguely displeased continence.

“Do you believe him now?” For all that Stiles and Scott were her friends her voice was still icy politeness, clear to Jordan at least that she was just barely tolerating this.

Deaton was the first to speak. “Yes Mrs. Parrish, seeing the roses does make your husband’s story more real. Which only means that something else is causing his sickness. And that we do not know who it was that bit Mr. McCall.”

Part of Jordan wanted them to admit it so he asked. “Earlier you said a beast bit Scott, and now you’re saying ‘who’? I’m puzzled.” He wasn’t; but the Jordan from this morning didn’t know what werewolves were, to Deaton and Lydia’s friends he was still that man.

“Ah.” Deaton smiled. “Apologies Mr. Parrish, I sometimes forget myself. The creature that we are looking for is both a man and a beast, someone who can shift between the two forms at will. There have been many names for them throughout history, but the one you would be most familiar with is werewolf.”

Lydia sat in the seat next to Jordan’s, roses clutched in her hands, as if she’d just received the greatest shock of her life. “What...am I to believe then that monsters exist?” Jordan had to wonder if he should be worried that his wife’s ability to lie appeared greater than his own. For even Jordan forgot for a moment that she had been with him this morning when Peter had told them the truth.

Deaton stood, moving to stand before the fireplace. Although it had been sometime since Jordan had last been in a classroom he still recalled a teacher’s pose. “Not all the monsters recorded in legend and folklore are real Mrs. Parrish, but of the ones I’ve studied I know for a fact that werewolves are indeed real.” He pulled out a pipe.

“Sir,” Lydia butted in. “I would prefer if you did not smoke in my house.” She look as indomitable as a statue and Jordan wished he could hold her hand.

“Apologies.” He put his pipe away. “In fact my mother’s hometown Bedburg had a werewolf in the late 16th century. Like all his kind he was a monster who feasted upon human flesh.”— _“_ _Zeus gave us a craving for human flesh, but if we did not consume any in the first nine years we would regain our human shapes, and be able to shift between the two.”_ —“We have to count ourselves lucky that he did not bite anyone and pass on his curse. Like this one has Mr. McCall.”

McCall himself looked quite green, and Jordan hoped the poor man didn’t become violently ill. He picked up his cup of tea and drank the whole cup down. “Lydia? Could I bother you…” He held his cup out.

“Yes.” She stood quickly and, setting aside her roses, went to the pot and poured him some more tea. “Would anyone else like some?” A round of shaking heads was her answer and she resumed her seat. “Dr. Deaton if your story is correct then how did werewolves come to be? Why have they not come into the light before now? Science has come quite far since the 1500s, I would think such a being would not have escaped our notice for such a long time.”

“For all their monstrosity, or perhaps because of it, Mrs. Parrish, they are quite good at concealing themselves. They can walk among us just like any normal human could. Which truly makes them the stuff of nightmares.”

“But,” Stiles butted in. “Surely there must be ways to tell human from werewolf?”

“Indeed. Werewolves cannot stand the touch of silver, and the plant sometimes called wolfsbane is far more deadly to them than even humans. They cannot pass a barrier of rowan, also known as mountain ash. There are various reasons as to why this is, but to go into them may be too technical. Sufficed to say that werewolves, like most monsters, are creatures of the devil, and thus are inimical to all that is good in the world.”

Deaton’s words raised invisible hackles in Jordan, especially how contrary they were to Peter’s own. Not that the man spoke of what could injure him. Which was true? Jordan found himself inclined to believe Peter, but if he truly was as Deaton said then he would be an excellent liar.

Out of the corner of his eye he looked at Lydia to see that her own expression was a thoughtful one. He made a mental note to speak with her when they were finally alone, see if they could come to some sort of decision. Her intelligence with his instincts would hopefully bring them to a conclusion they both found agreeable.

“Perhaps,” Lydia spoke. “We could speak more of this later? It is...quite a lot to take in at the moment.” Ah, he would kiss her if possible.

Deaton gave a grave nod. “It would be good for all of us to think on this, and it would give me time to research further on the subject, reach out to some of my colleagues to see if they have any hints as to whom our werewolf may be.” Jordan hoped they didn’t.

Stiles and Scott stood to join Deaton. “You’ll ring us if you think of anything?” Stiles asked.

“We will.” Lydia stood as well and Jordan with her. “Thank you for sharing this with us. I wish you luck on your own search.” With a smile that would do royalty proud she escorted them to the front door and out of their flat.

-

The moment she closed the door Lydia let her false smile fall from her face and turning rushed to Jordan, pulling him into a hug that surprised even him. “I’m afraid.”

His arms wrapped around her and his hands soothed up and down her back. “We will figure it out, together. Come on.” He began walking them from the parlor to their bedroom. The windows let in enough light at least that he didn’t have to pull away from her to light the lamp.

They sat on the bed and she curled herself against his side. One of his hands moved up her neck and his thumb began rubbing that spot behind her ear that nearly turned her to goo. “I think the most looming question we have to contend with is, what do _we_ want?”

“To be safe.” She closed her eyes. “To be loved.” Opening her eyes she forced herself to pull away from him so she could look him in the eye. “Peter.” It’s reckless of her to admit it, that she would choose a near stranger over two of her friends. Something about that man draws her, and Jordan, in. Already she sneaked around so many of society's ‘rules’, and here she found that she would bear it no more. If society could not stand it, well, it was easy enough to do mathematics and science in the middle of nowhere as it was the city.

Jordan gave her a wan smile and leaning down kissed her with aching tenderness. “Which story are we to believe? Peter or Deaton’s? They are so vastly different from each other that it’s hard to consider they are about the same thing.”

All too true, which did make her leery of both. If there had been a common trait or two between them then she would have somewhere to begin attempting to discern the truth; but as it stood all she had was that in both werewolves craved human flesh. “If Deaton’s story were true I would think we would already be hearing stories of partly eaten bodies in London.” It would just be the sort of thing the more sensational ones would shout to the skies. “Yet I find it hard to believe that the gods and goddesses of ancient Greece were, possibly are still among us.”

Jordan leaned his head down, resting it on her shoulder. “I _want_ to trust Peter, even if Deaton’s telling of it is the right one I find I don’t care. I want to keep Peter safe, and _that_ frightens me.”

She ran her hands through his hair. “We _have_ seemed to have gotten ourselves into quite the situation haven’t we? We both seem to agree that, despite all we learned today, we want Peter. And damn what everyone may think of us for it.”

At her cursing Jordan’s head pulled away, looking at her with stunned adoration. Something flickered in his eyes that made her gut clench in a familiar way; and he leaned back in, moving to her ear. “Tell me of it, tell me what you want.”

Lydia gasped, pressing herself against him again. “I want him to watch as you take me. Naked and beautiful next to us.” Arousal began to flicker through her at her own words. “I want him to lean in, suckle at my breast,” Jordan groaned, peppering her jaw and neck with kisses as his fingers moved to undo her dress. “I want him to find some way to be inside me while you are.” She squirmed as juices slicked her thighs. “ _Jordan_ …”

He placed a more lingering kiss against her neck, the sort that most would try to hide under a high collar. “I know,” he soothed as he pulled away. “Soon.” She watched through hooded eyes as he began sliding down her clothed body.

“I want to see him take you,” he murmured against her breast. Her nipples were so sensitive that even the fine linen of her chemise felt too abrasive. “I want you to watch as he takes me.” Her beloved husband flushed profusely as he moved lower. Not that she watched him for long, the images his words conjured causing her to throw her head back and gasp at the tabooness of it all, her eyes nearly rolling into the back of her head. “I want you to pleasure yourself as he does things to me no living soul has yet to do.”

She could feel his hands begin to hike up her skirts and her breath hitched when she realized what he was planning on doing. “I want him to know what it’s like to be turned into a needy, begging mess. I want him to control us absolutely in the bed, or wherever we decide to take our pleasure. I want _you_ to control us, treat us like the goddess he calls you and us barely deserving of your attention.”

A wanton’s moan left her at the idea, so far she’d only been on top once during sex. Yet Jordan would still ask for her direction—wanting to please her as he should—so the idea of commanding him _and_ Peter, who held so much more power than the two of them combined, was a heady one.

His breath ghosted against the bare skin of her thighs and she started, realizing he’d slipped his head into her skirts without her noticing. Normally she would grasp at his hair, but her voluminous skirts prevent it, so she had to content herself with clutching the bedspread as he began to consume her. Her hips rocked up and down, silently begging for more. Jordan denied her, his hands wrapping around her hips to pin her down, and his head pulling away slightly.

“Do you think he’d give into you? Or force you to remain still while he satisfies you at _his_ pace?” His voice was slightly muffled by yards of fabric, but she heard him well enough.

He wanted her to _think_ when all she wanted was pleasure? “ _Jordan_ ,” she begged. Soft whimpers and gasps left her at a potentially startling pace. “He’s not here,” she finally managed to pant out. Eyes squeezing shut at the idea of Peter being her right now; blue eyes far too intent as Jordan did his favorite deed. Would Peter join in? Her channel clenched around nothing at the thought of two tongues wiggling inside her, four fingers spearing her like cocks, spreading her further than she’d ever been. “ _You_ have to please me.”

“Yes, dear wife,” his tone was humble and submissive. He placed a soft kiss against the skin of her thigh, but she could just imagine his cheeky smile as he resumed his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some versions of the Lycaon myth where if those turned into wolves resisted the urge to eat human flesh for a span of years than they were turned back into humans, I just took it a step further.
> 
> And Bedburg, a town in Germany, did have it's own 'werewolf' in the 1500s, I wouldn't recommend looking it up if you have a weak stomach, it gets pretty gruesome. BTW, the werewolf's name was Peter Stumpf.


	11. Interlude V

_Dear Ms. Blake,_

_I know this letter may come as a surprise, since it has been some time since we last spoke. But I was hoping I could trouble you for some of your excellent books? Specifically the_ Malleus Maleficarum _,_ The Trial of Peter Stumpp _,_ Morandi’s Notes on the Grand Grimoire _, and_ Gosse’s Bestiary _. I have enclosed some English pounds to cover the cost of shipping them, or if you chose not to, as an apology for bothering you._

 

_yrs. etc._

_Alan Deaton_

 

-

 

_Dear Deaton,_

_You are certainly as charming as ever old friend. Enclosed are the books you’ve asked for, as well as_ On The Mother of Romulus and Remus _. I pray that you have not let yourself be caught up once more in werewolves. I beg you to remember what happened to my Maria the last time this happened._

 

_Praying for your safety,_

_Jennifer Blake_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the Malleus Maleficarum and the Grand Grimoire are both real books, the others are ones that I just made up.


	12. Chapter 6

In the morning they both woke earlier than usual, a shared quiet falling over the both of them as Jordan and Lydia climbed out of bed. While she dressed he went into the bathroom and shaved, somehow taken aback by the fact that he hadn't change in the night. He felt like he should have, what with the course he and Lydia had decided on. It felt as if the whole world had changed.

Another man, sharing their bed, the both of them, eating at their table and taking a place in their life. Perhaps even taking part in the whole process of children. Jordan stared at his reflection in the mirror for a few moments, stunned by the path his mind had taken. Peter giving Lydia children?

Now that he had thought it he found the idea would not leave him, a girl with Lydia’s hair and Peter’s stunning blue eyes, chasing after her older brother who also had Lydia’s hair, but all the rest from Jordan; another squalling babe in Lydia’s arms as she watched over the other two.

His razor clattered into the sink and he grasped at the porcelain to steady himself.

It wasn’t as if the idea offended, quite the opposite. The sheer speed at which his brain went from sharing a bed to raising children together staggered him. His thoughts hadn’t even moved that fast when he started courting Lydia. In fact he had been far more hesitant with her, knowing they were friendly, but unsure if that would blossom into true affection, or if they would only remain friends.

A knock on the door made his heart pick up. “Jordan? Are you alright?”

“Yes, dear.” His own reflection proved the lie, as did the beating of his heart in his ears.

Despite the thickness of the door he could hear her sigh, “Jordan I’m coming in.” Already he could hear the creaky knob begin to turn, and he sighed himself seeing no way around the current discussion. He wasn’t going to _lie_ to her.

Seconds later the tiny bathroom became even more so as Lydia and her full skirts entered. Her hair fell around her face and down her back, still not yet up. It made her look a lovely mess, even moreso with the concern in her eyes. “Jordan?” One of her hands came up and cupped his cheek, heedless of the shaving cream still there. “What’s the matter?”

“Just.” He gave another soft sigh and sank to sit on the rim of the bathtub, Lydia joining him. “I had a...thought that took me aback. Made me wonder if perhaps we’re moving too fast in this decision.” It wasn’t as if he didn’t _want_ Peter all of the sudden. Only that the idea of _children_ , when Lydia had said she wanted to wait made him wary now.

Lydia reached over to the sink and picked up a wash rag, bringing it up to his face she began wiping off the remaining shaving cream. “What was it? If...you want to tell me.” He felt grateful that she gave him the option to refuse, but disliked how hesitant she was over it.

He tilted his chin up slightly so she had better access. “It was...you. With ours, that is his and mine, children. I know you said you wanted to wait, and I respect that. It just...popped into my head. I don’t even know if that would be something _Peter_ would want. I—” Lydia’s finger placed itself on his lips, cutting him off.

“Jordan.” She gave an affectionate smile. “I’m not going to get mad at you for _thinking_ about something. I think about children frequently, but I still do want to wait. Granted I hadn’t yet thought of what Peter might think of that, or yes, if he’d want to be _that_ intimate with us. It is something we can ask, and if not, then you and I will have our children and there won’t be anyone the wiser.”

“It’s just, not the thinking about _children_ part that really worries me.” He was relieved, giving her a grateful smile as she finished cleaning him up. “It’s that we’ve only just agreed to think about being…”

“Sexual? Entangled? Attached?” A teasing smile danced across Lydia’s lips.

He huffed, but smiled at well. “All of that I’m sure. Lydia, we’ve only just agreed to this and my mind has already conjured up the image of what yours and his child might look like? That, it’s, which feels all too fast.” He took her hands in his, not caring about the rag. “That’s all.”

She lifted one of her hands, taking one of his with it, lacing their fingers together. “I don’t find if worrisome, that is just what I feel.” She raised his hand and kissed the back of it. “While I was madly in love with you when I agreed to marry you it wasn’t the only reason you know.”

“Huh?” Not articulate to be sure, but it conveyed his thoughts perfectly. In his mind he would have thought that being in love with someone would be good enough reason to marry them.

Lydia’s smile over their fingers warmed him. “Oh, being in love was the true reason I agreed. I also agreed because you are kind, and caring. You do your best to provide, and take care to be the best person you can. I know that you would treat me with the respect I deserve, and that you would never be cruel to me, or any children we might have.

“When I feel ready I’ll be more than happy to raise our children together, knowing that they’ll have a father like you.” She kissed each of his fingers. “Until such a time that that’s a reality I say you’re more than welcome to imagine our children; or my children with Peter, or any other man we might share.”

Those last words shocked him a little. “You want others?” It was the first time he’d certainly heard her say it, unless there was some subtle hint that he’d missed.

She gave a shrug. “Not now, no. Perhaps our agreement with Peter will not last, or is only temporary. Maybe later, when we’re only two again, we might come across someone else who we both enjoy the company of and wish to share more with. That also might not happen at all.” Leaning over their joined arms she gave him a soft kiss. “For now let us leave those thoughts in the ‘maybes’ and ‘what ifs’, shall we go see Peter? Or do you wish to talk more between us?”

He was utterly grateful she was giving him the choice. He squeezed their entwined hands, and returning the favor, kissed the back of her hand. There might still be a lingering trace of worry, but Lydia’s words had comforted him more than he thought they would. “Let us go speak with him. Tell him what we want.”

-

All things considered, Lydia thought she and Jordan had covered all avenues of attack in their discussion last night, after the lovemaking. After all he was a solicitor, and she had made more than a few deals of her own regarding her work and how is was to be published. She shouldn’t be feeling any sort of apprehension as they rode up the elevator to Peter’s rooms—made her long for one in the complex where she and Jordan lived, although three flights of stairs was good exercise.

The elevator man smiled at them as they reached the fourth floor. “Here you are.”

“Thank you." Jordan handed the man a pound note as she exited, catching up to her easily as they walked down the hall. “Part of me still can’t believe we’re doing this, is must be _some_ sort of sin, or break some law.”

Deciding not to mention the laws they _would_ be breaking when Peter and Jordan became intimate, she snorted softly. “You know I haven’t really been one for religion.” She went to church when she had to, now with Jordan, but that didn’t really signify any special sort of belief or spirituality in her case.

She could see his lips tug in a smile as they reached Peter’s door. “Indeed, but I still have enough Christian guilt in me that it does sting.”

“Well then.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I guess I or Peter shall just have to kiss it better then.”

A brief laugh escaped her when Jordan flushed, before reaching out to knock on the door.

Seconds later it was answered by a tallish young man, with brown-blond hair, and seemingly familiar gray-blue eyes. A shiver passed through her, someone walking over her grave as her gran would have said. Not that she had long to contemplate much of either.

“Aristides.” Jordan smiled. “I do believe Peter’s expecting us?”

Aristides, whom Lydia recalled vaguely from Jordan’s letters, gave a small bow. “Mr. Parrish.” Standing aside the man, who couldn’t be much older than herself, gestured them inside. “If you would follow me.”

The understated opulence of Peter’s rooms astounded. Aristides, who nagged at Lydia’s mind, lead them through a small receiving room towards a much more comfortable living area. Where Peter sat reading the morning _Times_ , a cup of steaming coffee at his elbow.

“Sir, Mr. and...Mrs. Parrish to see you.” The pause, and the stiffening of Aristides shoulders caught Lydia off guard.

Peter folding up his paper and standing, a smile on his face, distracted her from those thoughts quite thoroughly. “Hello. I’m delighted to see you both. Aristides, if you would ring up the kitchen and have them send up a pot of their best tea, then you may go.”

Which surprised Lydia, but she reasoned that the fewer people who knew of this affair the better; even if that someone was Peter’s personal manservant.

Aristides bowed, “yes sir.” Then left the room.

“Sit.” Peter gestured to the loveseat next to his chair. “I hope it would not be too presumptuous to think that you have already reached a decision?”

“No, Peter, it would not.” Jordan answered. Faintly in the background she could hear the sound of a door opening and closing.

“We should discuss as much as we can consider, so that we are all satisfied and in accord.” Lydia continued, in her mind that was important; there didn’t need to be rules per se, but things that they all agreed on, so that there would be no question as to what they were to each other.

Peter nodded, and they jumped head first into the more interesting two hours of Lydia’s life—so far.

They covered more ground than Lydia thought they would. Even if sometimes Jordan turned the color of tomatoes, or Peter got a look in his eye as if he might ravish the both of them then and there, or if her own thoughts seemed to stop because of one thing or another said.

In the end they did have a few ground rules—mainly that the spouse must be there the first time he took the other—but little else in the way of true strictures. When Jordan had stutteringly asked if Peter might want children, the other man had gone still, a far off look appearing in his eye. When he returned to himself there seemed to be a sad air about him, but he did say yes. Taking up Jordan’s promise to wait a year—perhaps less—before truly pushing the issue.

Which satisfied Lydia quite well. There was really only one other thing left to talk about, Peter himself. “How does one become a werewolf?” She might not be curious in becoming one herself, but she thought it might be good to know all the ways. “Yesterday our friend Scott and some others came to our flat asking questions.” It was easy enough to see Peter tensing, and somehow normal that it be Jordan who reached out to calm him.

“He had been bitten the night before.” All of Peter’s anger turned to stiffness.

Despite wanting to stop Lydia made herself continue. “Will that turn him?”

Peter fell back into his seat, jerking Jordan towards him with the action. “Yes. The bite of a werewolf will turn a human. That is the _only_ way a human can become a werewolf, though werewolves can be born.” Which made Lydia curious, what about the bite caused the change? Was it an infection like rabies? Was there a cause for the human flesh craving, that died off somehow after nine years?

For all the scientific inquiry that could be had here, she forced herself to focus. “Is there a cure?”

“No.” Peter sighed, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of Jordan’s hand. “It’s a curse, well and true. Once you’ve been bitten you’ll turn, eventually. _Who_ bit him, because I well swear on the Styx that it wasn’t myself. There are no others like me and Aristides here on this island.”

His words worried her. Who indeed. Those weren’t the important questions, not really. “Are you planning on biting Jordan or I?”

“No.” It came out a snarl, his whole body jerking forward, taking poor Jordan with it—Peter easily caught Jordan. “There are...rules...of sorts. Of conduct, and behavior. My brethren have all agreed that we should not bite the unwilling. That.” She could see hints of fang in Peter’s mouth, frightening yes, but all the more attractive for it. “That is why so many new werewolves claimed to have made deals with the devil for their powers.”

Briefly Lydia wondered if she should perhaps read up on old werewolf trials; maybe she could purloin them from Deaton and Stiles. Standing she went and joined Jordan and Peter. “I’m glad to hear that.” She was, she quite liked being human for now.

“I am too,” Jordan finally piped in. A sort of half smile on his face as Peter began to nuzzle his hair.

“I might bite you during sex, but my ‘normal’ teeth won’t turn you.” When Peter smiled it was with teeth that, while a little long in the canine, looked all too human. “It’s the wolf’s teeth that turn.”

She wrapped her arms around Peter’s torso, resting her cheek against his beating heart; a smile of her own gracing her face as Peter’s other arm wrapped around her, surrounding her with warmth. “Will you both come out with me tonight? I’ve been told there is a magic show not to be missed tonight, I would be honored if you would accompany me.”

Lydia fought back a more humorous smile as Peter had to bend down to nuzzle her own hair. She glanced up through her eyelashes at Jordan, a silent conversation passing between them. Until Jordan spoke. “We would love to Peter.”

-

Lydia had been to one or two magic shows in her younger years, but none recently; and none so opulent as this. Even the curtain looked special, the velvet done in a colorful abstract pattern that drew the eye in. Lydia felt certain she could spend quite some time just looking at it, no need for sleight of hand or impossible deeds.

When they had first taken their seats, though it was customary for her and Jordan to sit next to each other, she and Jordan had moved to put Peter between them. While Lydia’s eye might have been occupied by the curtain, her hand was taking advantage of Peter’s position, her fingers laced with his and her thumb brushing the soft skin of his forearm just under the cuff of his shirt.

On Peter’s other side Jordan leaned in. “Thank you again for taking us here.”

Peter smiled, his hand briefly squeezing Lydia’s own as his head turned to Jordan’s. “It is my sincere pleasure. I do believe I shall enjoy thoroughly spoiling the both of you.” Even if her position was not the best to truly see it, she could still see that Peter had dared to kiss Jordan’s cheek. Her own eyes darted around to see if anyone had noticed the action, but they all were wrapped up in conversations of their own.

“You make us sound as if we are children.” She might like the sentiment, but she would not let Peter treat her like a child.

His head turned to hers—while she could see Peter’s free hand come to land on Jordan’s thigh, his fingers most likely pressed up against the inseam of his pants from the way her husband abruptly focused on the curtain—and he raised their hands, kissing the back of hers. “Apologies. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s only that I do truly enjoy giving gifts to those most special to me. To see the way they light up when they receive something unexpected and precious.”

He looked as if he would continue, but the lights in the theater dimmed and the curtain began to pull back as the limelights on the stage were lit.

Despite the opulence of the theater the stage itself was nearly bare of ornamentation. Just a hazily painted backdrop, most likely from whatever play or ballet the theater was also putting on, and a table near the front.

“Ladies and Gentlemen.” A main in a plain suit walked onto the stage, coming to a stop front and center of the stage. “I am pleased once more to introduce to you Emeric the Magnificent! Returned to us after yet another sojourn into the wilds of the Orient where he was taught the mysterious and unexplainable feats he will perform for you tonight. Enjoy, and prepare yourselves for awe and amazement!”

As the man walked off the stage Lydia leaned in towards the, no _her_ , men. “I wonder,” she murmured. “Do they attribute these feats to the Orient because it is strange? Or because it is truly from there?”

Peter gave a soft chuckle. “If there are any tricks they claim to be Grecian I can tell you if it is true or not.”

On his other side Jordan looked taken aback. “You do magic as well Peter?” It hardly fathomed, but then again only a few days ago she would have said the same of werewolves and of the possibility of being with two men, who _knew_ of the other’s existence.

“Hardly.” Peter’s soft amusement was somehow catching, for Lydia couldn’t help but smile; while on the stage the magician in question walked on to great applause, not that the three of them much noticed. “To be quite frank the Greeks only ever perfected one trick.”

“What is that?” Lydia found herself compelled to ask, although she thought she could perceive the answer.

Peter’s attention went from them to the stage, Lydia followed his gaze to see the magician taking a handkerchief and after much folding turned it into a living butterfly. “Transformation,” Peter finally replied.

Contemplatively Lydia turned most of her attention back to the show. Not that she wasn’t aware of Peter and Jordan, how her body filled with contented pleasure when Jordan’s hand came to rest atop her own.

The show itself was pleasing, although Lydia felt quite certain she she could come up with the trick of it easily enough, given some time to think on it.

Afterwards they retired to Peter’s rooms, Lydia grateful that Aristides had left again. Or perhaps he had yet to return, for which Lydia found herself grateful the young man giving her a queer sort of feeling. Peter pouring them drinks as they then arranged themselves on one of the couches. Jordan and Peter pressed side by side, with Lydia curled up on Jordan’s lap, her legs and dress resting on Peter’s.

Despite their gregariousness on the carriage ride to the hotel they were in comfortable silence now. Content to just be and enjoy each other’s company.

Sipping her drink, ostensibly ouzo but recalling Jordan’s tale of it very much watered down, Lydia’s mind was more on mathematics than their current intimacy. Until she felt her shoes being undone, looking up just in time to see Peter’s free hand rest on her ankle; his thumb mimicking the same soothing stroking her own had in the theater. Jordan’s own hand curled around her waist to take up his own, and giving a pleased sort of sigh she rested her head against his shoulder.

While Lydia did find herself curious about the sex aspect, the ease of this intimacy was also entrancing on it’s own. The fact that what she and Jordan shared was so effortlessly shared and expanded taking her aback. Were the two of them an exception? Or was such a thing possible for everyone? Only society and expectation keeping anyone from taking the risk. A sad thought if there ever was one.

“What thought has you so glum sweetheart?” Peter’s voice broke the silence, giving her a start.

She nearly said ‘nothing’, old habits and upbringing trying to remind her that for the most part a woman’s opinion wasn’t truly welcome, or expected. “The idea that anyone might have this happiness yet not pursue it because of expectations.” Not exactly the pleasant sort of conversation she would have liked, perhaps it was the drink that had made her, as Peter said, ‘glum’.

Jordan’s head turned and he kissed her forehead, while Peter gave a soft, yet fond, smile. “The way I see it if one has the means to be truly happy and does not attain it, then they may not deserve it.”

“A curious sentiment,” Jordan responded before taking a sip of his own scotch.

Peter tilted his head slightly. “Is it? I think it only natural. The laws, no matter if they are written or unwritten, are all well and good. However, to say that the laws of the sky are the laws of the earth is something else entirely. As Zeus learned when he thought to take Aristi Chthonia from Hades.”

Biting back the urge to smile, and roll her eyes—because Peter knew full well with a line like that neither herself nor Jordan would be able to resist—she finished off her ouzo. “Did he now?” She asked, voice filled with amusement.

Peter leaned across Jordan and nuzzled her cheek. “Indeed.” As he turned his head he moved from nuzzling her to Jordan. “Perhaps we could retreat to the comfort of my bed and I could tell the tale?” After a brief second’s pause he continued. “It need not be anything more than tales and sleep if you wish it. But I would like you to stay.”

When said like that how could Lydia resist? For a brief moment she joined Peter in his nuzzling, making Jordan groan in defeat. “As if I would have said no,” her husband griped, causing her and Peter to exchange grins.

If it had felt strange to finally undress before Jordan on their wedding night, that same strangeness returned as she began to do so with Peter in the room—no amount of existing comfort could really prevent it. Even with Jordan there with her, helping her deal with her dress and sundries.

Peter seemed quite bemused however as he lay on the bed—more than large enough for the three of them. ”One could conceal a whole multitude of crimes in your skirts sweetheart.”

The fond tease made her pinken down to her toes, and when she and Jordan were suitably undressed and had joined Peter on the bed she pinched the man’s chest. “I dare say you would try wouldn’t you?”

“Guilty.” The smile he gave her was full of sharp teeth, which should have made her shiver in fear, but her shiver came from an altogether opposite sensation. “Best save that idea for later. Now, for the story.”

She and Jordan settled down, once again on either side of Peter, if much closer given the privacy; their hands entwining over Peter’s heart, legs all tangling together under the blankets. It put her in mind of times when, as girls, she and Allison would do the same, if more sensuous than those innocent experiences. Peter’s arms settled around both of them, holding them close and helping her to relax against him.

“Long ago, when the Iron Queen was still Kore, she found herself visited by a strange dream…” Lydia found herself caught between focus and drifting as Peter told the tale of Hades and Persephone, his voice rich and soothing to listen to.


	13. Interlude VI

“Here! Look at this.”

“Wolfsbane? Stiles, that’s _poisonous_. Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

“With proper handling it will do no ill to humans Mr. McCall.”

“How do we get it? I’m pretty sure if we just bought some up we’d draw attention to ourselves. It’s not like I can get any through the mortuary.”

“I will find us some Stiles, do not worry. I also recommend you stock up on silver, as well as mountain ash dust. Both will be instrumental in capturing this werewolf.”

-

“Why did you do it?”

“Sir, what…”

“You _bit_ Scott McCall. Aristides, there are _rules_ , we do not bite the unwilling. _Why_ did you do it?”

“Sir, I, I did it to expand the pack, you keep saying we need more.”

“ _That is not for you to decide!_ _I_ am the Alpha of this pack, _I_ choose who joins us, _I_ bite them. You are no longer allowed to leave the rooms unless I accompany you.”

“ _Peter_!”

“Do not try to appeal to some ‘better nature’ Aristides. Your brought this upon yourself by being foolish and thoughtless. _Others_ know we are here now. They will try and _hunt_ us, they will try to _kill_ us. All because you decided to leave your bounds, you should be glad I do not kill you myself.”


	14. chapter 7

The next week was one of both bliss—from the time spent with Peter, even if they still had not gone beyond brief kisses and light touches when they went out together—and fear. Jordan felt certain they were in another, hopefully brief, bout of fear.

He was having lunch with Deaton and Stiles, who it was becoming clear to him were the ringleaders of this hunt, counting down the minutes until he had to go back to work.

“Your thoughts Parrish?” Deaton’s question made his heart jump, just enough to feel, and he jerked his head up from his soup.

“Apologies doctor, my mind was elsewhere.” Lydia would certainly be proud of how pleasant and ‘normal’ he sounded.

Stiles shook his head. “What on Earth could distract you from _this_?”

Jordan bit his cheek to keep himself from making a sharp retort. After all Stiles was young and full of a sort of fire Jordan remembered from his own younger years—not that he was doddering himself mind you. Jordan found himself mindful of how vastly different their lives and experiences were. Stiles had lived a life of relative comfort, while Jordan’s early life had been a pendulum between ‘alright’ and ‘bad’.

“Stiles,” Deaton soothed placidly. “I had wondered as to your thoughts on why this werewolf might be here.”

Jordan shrugged, unwilling to reveal Peter in any fashion. “Perhaps it’s.” Referring to the ‘werewolf’ as an ‘it’ didn’t draw any attention—to them Peter was less than human. “Interested in the country that’s declared itself so great that the sun never sets.” An easy enough lie, and a truth that drew many immigrants to London.

“I still think Whitechapel’s our best option, despite that article from a few months ago about the black dog in Westminster. Did you read the paper this morning?”

It wasn’t hard to guess which article specifically Stiles was asking about. A prostitute had been murdered last night, body torn with a knife. Although Jordan could easily see why Stiles might think it a werewolf attack. Jordan would think there was a noticeable difference between claws and knives. “Yes, Lydia made me read it so I could give her the brief since we’re dining with Allison and Scott tonight.”

Stiles snorted, since he bore the usual brunt of Lydia’s morbid curiosity. “Deaton and I are going to try and examine the body tonight, before they do the autopsy.” Jordan didn’t envy them that task.

The nearby grandfather clock chimed the hour and feeling a wash of gratefulness Jordan stood and fished a few bills from his pocket. “I hope that’s enough to cover my share. I will see your gentlemen later.”

He let their responses follow him as he left the cafe and hailed a hansom, for once eager to get back to work and think about things other than werewolves and death.

-

Lydia trembled against Peter as he kissed her, his body pushing her against and up the wall. Close by she could hear Jordan panting, having been distracted from his undressing of her. Not that she minded all that much at the moment. Despite all the layers of clothes still between them she could feel the heat of Peter’s cock, and she moaned into the kiss.

Peter broke away with a soft snort, his mouth sliding down her neck, blunt teeth abusing her skin. Her nails scrabbled at Peter’s bare back, and her head tilted to encounter Jordan’s own. His kisses different, but no less pleasurable, than Peter’s.

“Oh Lydia,” Peter murmured against her neck. “But,” he sighed exaggeratedly as he pulled his head away. “Your husband comes first.” Turning his own head he began the same sort of attack on Jordan’s neck, causing her husband to break away and cry out.

Almost with imperceptible slowness Peter’s body slid away from hers and pinned Jordan against the wall. While Peter still wore his trousers Jordan was down to his smalls; her eyes locked on the two of them as they moved against one another, her hands blindly moved to get herself down to her chemise.

Not that it abated any of the heat flowing within her, in fact if she were asked to describe this feeling she might go so far as to say she _was_ in heat. Panting she pressed herself against Peter’s back, hips arching just enough that she could rub herself against him.

It wasn’t hard to miss Peter’s chuckle, not when it made Jordan whimper. “Mm, insatiable the both of you.”

Somehow as one. With Peter—despite being in the middle—guiding them, they found their way to the bed. In the ensuing flurry both Jordan and Peter became naked and Peter ended up on the bottom, with Jordan’s back pressed against his front and Lydia atop Jordan, happily grinding her sex against his.

Jordan looked like he badly wanted to use his arms, but Peter had them pinned to Jordan’s sides, with _his_ hands holding Lydia’s hips. “Lovely,” Peter rumbled in Jordan’s ear as her husband bucked and quivered, trying to gain more sensations.

“Lydia,” Jordan whimpered. She knew what he was asking for of course, he wanted to be inside her, but she didn’t want to bother with the sponge so neither of them would have that. Instead she leaned down and nibbled at the side of his neck Peter had left unmauled.

“I think Peter wants you all for himself tonight dear.” For a second it felt as if her very womb clenched at the images those words conjured.

Peter’s lips found hers and gave her a soft kiss. “Yes, you don’t belong to your wife tonight Jordan.” His hands let go of her hips and insinuated themselves between her and Jordan, taking his cock in hand and giving it a few pumps. It even felt pleasurable to her, what with him rubbing her belly as he did so. “You’re _mine_.”

A whine ripped itself out of Jordan, making her clench again—those truly were the best sounds, proof of how far gone her husband was—and Peter purr in satisfaction. Lightly his fingers pinched Lydia’s hip. “Off if you please.”

Despite every part of her telling her to remain atop Jordan she crawled off, taking the time to lick a stripe through the salty sweat on his chest. For a few more moments Peter and Jordan remained in the same position, Peter’s hand lightly pumping Jordan’s cock, while her husband arched and displayed himself quite well; while beneath him Peter remained tantalizingly hidden.

Then Peter let go of Jordan completely. “Get up Jordan, onto your hands and knees.”

As Jordan moved Lydia found herself torn between who to stare at, Jordan, positioning himself in a way she could picture happening with herself—but she and Jordan had yet to try—or Peter who’s body now lay revealed to her.

In the end the new won out, much as she loved Jordan.

Peter’s body was thick, and muscled, which appeared to apply just as well to his cock as the rest of him. Granted he was probably the same length as Jordan, if a tad thicker. His body had no hair on his chest, or genitals—a shock—and she found herself fascinated by the way his muscles, she could not recall when she had ever seen someone so thick with them, moved as his got up on his own knees.

Bending over he placed a line of kisses up Jordan’s spine, paying special attention to the nape of his neck; leaving Jordan trembling. “Now stay right here while I go get something.” He climbed off the bed completely and walked out of the room.

Curious she found herself following Peter as he strode into the kitchen, his eyes darting about, clearly in search of something.

“What do you need?” She rather thought Jordan would prefer not to wait long.

Peter sniffed the air, and she felt a strange frisson at having witnessed it, and practically launched himself at one of the cabinets, throwing the doors open and reaching in. Seconds later he pulled away, her half used bottle of olive oil clutched in one of his hands.

A thoughtful frown crossed her face. “What on earth do you need that for?”

“Lydia,” Peter sounded patient, but not patronizing, as he spoke. “While there are many men and a few women who like to be taken with no sort of help to smooth the way, I’ve found that the experience is much more enjoyable for the inexperienced if the passage is not so rough.”

 _What...Oh!_ He was talking about sex, about penetrating Jordan’s anus.Then the rest of his words registered. “Women?” It nearly came out a squeak. She supposed it _was_ possible, but she would not think it as enjoyable as being in a woman’s channel—after all that _was_ where a cock was supposed to go in a woman.

He turned, and taking her hand began to lead her back to the bedroom. “Oh yes sweet, women too. There is a slight difference, but I’ve yet to met a woman who has not enjoyed it when they’ve agreed to it and been sufficiently prepared.” He stopped and turned, letting go of her hand to cup her vulva through the thin fabric of her chemise, insistently hot.

She found herself gasping and arching up onto her toes, Peter smiled. “I’ve heard tell that a woman can even take two cocks in her quim given enough effort on all parties.” As he spoke she could feel his fingertips sink into her, making her squirm; a hard feat considering her ill balanced state. That didn’t stop her from enjoying it, enjoying the images his words conjured.

His current position made clear to him how much she was enjoying this. “Would you like to try that my little goddess? The two of us stretching you so widely, your sweet channel holding us fast?”

A small whimper left her. “Yes,” she gasped out.

“It will be a pleasure worth striving for.” Peter smiled as his hand pulled away her hooded eyes watching as he brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them.

She pouted. “Horrid tease.”

His smile flickered into a smirk. “Soon enough precious you and I will have our time.” His eyes grew dark and she shivered.

With ease, as if their brief encounter hadn’t happened, he took her arm again and finished taking them back to the bedroom. Jordan, bless him, had somehow managed to keep his position; the sight somehow more delightful for it.

It pleased Peter if his expression was anything to go by. He bent down and kissed her cheek. “Make yourself comfortable, enjoy yourself however you wish.” With that he let her go climbing back onto the bed and scooting up to Jordan.

She quickly joined him, leaning herself against one of the back posts, giving her a good view of everything.

“Now,” Peter sounded almost conversational as he opened the bottle with one hand and spread the cheeks of Jordan’s rear with the other, revealing the puckered pink circle of Jordan’s anus. Lydia watched, transfixed, having never seen such a thing before. “Let’s get your channel as wet as your dear wife’s is shall we?”

The lewd words startled a gasp from Lydia—even if the walls of her, indeed, wet channel clenched—while Jordan groaned. His head turned, just enough that his eyes met hers.

She kept his gaze, but her position meant she could do that _and_ watch as Peter drizzled oil onto Jordan’s rear, putting down the bottle between his knees so he could use both hands to spread it around, rubbing it into already supple skin. Only some of it actually touched Jordan’s anus, each brief brush of Peter’s fingers making her husband emit some choked sound and grasp at the covers tighter.

More oil, this time more of it ending up in and around Jordan’s anus. Lydia got the idea of it rather quickly, preparing the way slowly so as not to hurt Jordan. Yet soon enough she watched as Peter sank a finger in, hissing as Jordan’s body seemed to cling to him. “So tight,” Peter sounded dangerously pleased by that. “Going to make me work to fit inside aren’t you Jordan? Not let me go once you’ve got me?”

Beneath Peter Jordan keened, his own cock weeping presemen, absently Lydia wondered if Jordan would orgasm soon. She’d felt it many times now, but she’d never actually _seen_ it. She jumped when she felt soft fingers graze her thighs, glancing down briefly she was taken aback to find they were her own, somehow hiking up her skirt without her knowing.

Yet now that she had apparently started it she found she could not stop her own hands, the whole eroticism of this night encouraging her—regardless of what consequences she might endure from masturbating. As her hands crept up, painfully slow, she looked back at Jordan and Peter. Peter now had two fingers inside Jordan, and she watched amazed as those fingers slid in and out, how they worked Jordan open. The sight making her her gasp quietly, one of her own fingers finally making contact with her labia, teasing the folds just as Peter had earlier.

“Look at her.” Peter’s body draped itself over Jordan’s, obscuring Jordan’s rear, she watched as Peter nuzzled at Jordan’s ear and cheek. “Look at how much she wants you in her.” As Peter spoke her fingers slip into her vagina, again mimicking Peter’s actions. If the sensation was as good for Jordan as it was for her no wonder he was letting it happen. “But you can’t,” Peter’s fingers must have done _something_ to Jordan because the next moment he was shouting, his semen bursting from his cock, splattering the bed.

“I get to have you first.” The satisfaction in Peter’s voice made the both of them moan, Lydia’s thumb shifting up slightly to rub around her clit, while Jordan’s body trembled from his orgasm.

Peter pulled away from Jordan, making her husband whine in displeasure—drawing a whimper from her. His hands soothing down Jordan’s sides as if he were a skittish horse or dog. “Shh,” Peter murmured. His hands pulling away as well, one seeking out the bottle of oil. Lydia used a foot to roll it to him and he gave her a grateful smile.

Opening the bottle he poured a little into his hand and slid it up and down his cock, making in gleam in the light. “Ready?” he asked Jordan, draping himself over her husband’s back again; this time leaving enough space for Lydia to see Peter positioning his cock at Jordan’s slightly open entrance.

-

With Peter’s lager body draped over him like this Jordan felt pinned, but in a way he found he didn’t mind. Peter’s breath ghosted across his ear as he spoke, sending a slight shiver through Jordan. Not that the other man hadn’t been doing much worse a few moments ago. Realizing Peter was waiting for a response, Jordan tried to get himself to relax. “Yes,” it didn’t come out as strongly as he would’ve liked; but in his defense in the eyes of the law doing this made him a criminal, something Jordan never thought he’d become. It was a daunting thing to come to terms with.

Again Peter’s warm hands stroked down the sides of his chest. “Relax Jordan,” Peter said quietly. “If you say so I’ll stop. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Those words bolstered Jordan’s courage and he found himself nodding. “Do it Peter.” His gaze shifted to meet Lydia’s shuttered eyes. “I trust you.”

Above him Peter rumbled, making Jordan shiver again. Then something began pressing against him, inextricably making it’s way into his slicked heat.

Jordan had expected it to be good, but not _this_ good. Peter’s cock was as hot as the rest of him, and it stretched Jordan in ways he never thought possible, touched things that Jordan didn’t even know would fill him with such pleasure. If this was what Lydia felt each time he penetrated _her_ , no wonder she enjoyed it so.

Speaking of his wife, he opened his eyes to see her head thrown back; her clever fingers diving in and out of her own channel, hips undulating as she worked herself to orgasm, a beautiful sight. One he wondered why he’d never seen before.

Not that he wondered for long, for with a soft grunt Peter was inside him completely, the other man’s ragged breath loud in Jordan’s ear. “I dare say.” Peter’s hips pulled back and shot forward the slapping sound of skin against skin, and the sensation of Peter’s cock seeming to sink just that little bit further in, making Jordan groan and arch his back. “The only thing that will rival you for tightness dear Jordan will be your delectable wife.”

Somehow, despite the fact that he had already orgasmed, his own cock seemed to be hardening again. A fact Peter quickly noticed as they moved. “This is what she feels you know,” Peter panted in his ear as his hand came and wrapped itself around Jordan’s cock. “Every single time you take her.” Each word was punctuated by a thrust, making Jordan’s eyes roll back into his head, his mind beginning to grow insensate to it all.

“Look at her,” Peter grunted, the pace of his thrusts increasing. If Jordan could look he would. “Pleasuring herself for the first time as she watches her husband get taken like an animal. Realizing how different pleasure can be…” Peter’s words were cut off into a rumbling snarl as his hips hit Jordan’s one last time, even more heat filling Jordan then before. Some still aware part of his brain realizing that the other man had just orgasmed in him.

He could hear Lydia’s quiet sighs grow more and more breathy and soon she too tumbled into an orgasm, just in time for Jordan to be pushed against the bed by the full force of Peter’s weight on him.

The three of them lay like that for a while, before Jordan ineffectually tried to shift Peter. “You’re as heavy as a boulder,” he grumbled good naturedly, too suffused with pleasure to feel any real rancor towards the other man.

“Been under many boulder have you?” Peter’s voice had the same sort of easygoing quality to it, but he did shift off Jordan, enough that Jordan felt like he could breath again. Peter pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck before moving off completely, leaving Jordan feeling a tad peculiar. “Lydia?” Peter’s voice was whisper soft and Jordan managed to lift his head enough to see him tugging gently on Lydia’s arms.

A stupid sort of smile found it’s way on Jordan’s face. “She gets this way sometimes, tired after sex.” Jordan explained, finding enough of his own strength to prop himself back up. “I didn’t realize this would be enough to do that.” Usually she only got this sleepy when they’d been extremely... _vigorous_ , other men might be sort of insulted by the idea of their wives nearly falling asleep right after sex. Jordan could only feel a sort of pride, and really he usually felt pretty tired himself after such strenuous love making.

Lydia’s eyes fluttered open, though they remained half shuttered even then. “Mmmmwaht?”

“I believe you might sleep more comfortably in your husband’s arms,” soft amusement laced Peter’s voice as he guided her towards Jordan. Once they two of them were embracing Peter reached over and brushed Lydia’s hair aside, kissing her cheek. “Sleep dear.”

A sleepy murmur escaped Lydia, but her eyes closed once more and she snuggled deeper into Jordan’s arms. Beneath him the bed shifted and he looked up to see Peter climbing out. “Where are you going?” Jordan’s voice was quiet in the room.

Peter turned his head and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back shortly.”

Jordan watched as his... _lover_ —an odd heat suffused Jordan at the thought—left the room, only to return a minute or so later with a washcloth in his hands. Again the bed sank, and Jordan craned his head around to see what Peter was doing. Jumping slightly when he felt the actually _damp_ washcloth touch his rear.

“Shh,” Peter soothed. “I’d think you’d prefer to make less of a mess than you already have.” The teasing note from earlier returned.

Jordan couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Thank you.” Despite the teasing Peter was right, he couldn’t imagine how Lydia might be able to get the stains of his semen out of the bedcovers. His cheeks flushed.

It was easy enough to feel Peter lean over him and kiss his cheek. “It is only as I should do,” he replied. Soon enough the washcloth was removed and Peter’s warm body pressed itself firmly against his back. “How do you feel?” One of Peter’s arms moved to lay over both Jordan and Lydia, elegant fingers lightly brushing over her arm, tracing designs on her skin.

“Wrung out,” he admitted. “Strangely fulfilled.” Jordan couldn’t explain it more than that. “What are you putting on Lydia?”

Peter’s face buried itself in the nape of Jordan’s neck and he could feel the other man smile. “Your name, my own, hers. In Greek though. Yours is the hardest.” A second kiss was placed on his neck. “Sleep now Jordan. I’ll watch over the both of you, keep you safe.”

Part of Jordan wanted to argue that it was _his_ job to keep them all safe, but he was too tired. With Lydia’s breath ghosting across his chest and Peter’s face against his neck his eyes slowly closed and soon he was slipping into sleep.

-

It was pleasantly strange for Peter to share breakfast with them, a fact Lydia wished wasn’t so. While none of them enjoying the illicit way they carried on this relationship, none could think of a better way to go about it when two of Lydia’s good friends were on a witch hunt for werewolves.

She would take her pleasure in sitting down with the both of them over tea, porridge, toast and sausage while she could. Jordan had nipped down earlier to get a copy of the  _Times_ and had doled it out between the three of them, though she and him had had their usual good natured squabble over who got to read the business section first. Unexpectedly ended by Peter who had leaned in and kissed the both of them, one right after the other.

Certainly a good way to end an ‘argument’.

The paper was soon forgotten as they fell into conversation. About one thing in particular. “The Argents are holding an engagement party for Scott and Allison at the end of the week.” She slathered raspberry preserves over her toast. “I was told to extend an invitation to you Peter if you feel inclined to attend.”

He finished his bite of blood sausage, a item she was not surprised at all to find he enjoyed greatly. “Weddings, even ones that haven’t happened yet, are to be celebrated. And I did wish to speak to Scott.”

She and Jordan traded looks. Knowing full well what that conversation would entail, neither sure what they themselves might be able to say to hold Peter back. Instead she continued. “It’s a costume ball, so I hope you are quick with ideas.” She did feel sort of bad giving the invitation at basically the last minute.

“I’m sure I can think of something.” Peter gave a toothy smile before vigorously biting into another piece of blood sausage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Jack the Ripper reference!
> 
> Please don't use olive oil as lube. Just leave that in history where it belongs.


	15. Interlude VII

_On the WolfvesBane and it’s afekt on the Beast in Questione (Updated and modernized)_

_Wolfsbane is a perilous plant which can be as deadly to its bearer as the Beast. Of the known varieties all will kill the Beast, but some must be given in greater quantities to accomplish the same from a more Potent strain._

_Some strains also produce other effects before death occurs. Plants harvested from Corsica are thought to make the Beast poisoned with it speak the truth. While one of the varieties common to the mainland (differentiated from the other by the name_ Bleu Nord _), causes intense weakness in the Beast, and is a more potent killer than most._

_(A Note: There is thought to have been a Grecian strain that sent those who imbibe it into a deathlike state (possibly to make the Beast easier to move), before killing it. Much like Silphium it has been used up to extinction, if it ever existed.)_

_The kind found in the Pyrenees will induce transformation, and has be used in many a trial to prove the Beast’s guilt..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silphium was a real plant back in Ancient Roman times, but was apparently so tasty that the Roman's ate it into extinction.


	16. Chapter 8

Scott pulled at the collar of his costume, a shepard, feeling as if everyone were staring at him. Which was hardly true. If anything all eyes were on Allison, in her elaborate French shepherdess costume, as she laughed with Lydia—in some sort of medieval dress. Not him lurking in a corner, filled with nerves as he looked out over the small assembly; one dominated by Argents.

Stiles and Isaac, both dressed as cowboys—Scott couldn’t hold back his huff of laughter—entered and Scott felt a measure of relief. If anything he was sure Stiles would be willing to be a buffer between him and Allison’s grandfather Gerard. Who spoke as if he’d experienced the Revolution and the Napoleonic wars firsthand; when he had obviously been born a short time after, otherwise Scott had to believe that the man was nearly a hundred years old.

Clutching his Champagne glass as if it would protect him he went to his friends. “Thanks for coming.”

Stiles gave a wide grin under his black ten gallon hat. “Why would I have missed it?”

Isaac’s own smile was a wan one. “Thank you for inviting me Scott, you didn’t have to.”

Scott clapped a hand onto Isaac’s shoulder. “Stuff and nonsense Isaac, you’re my friend. Why wouldn’t have I invited you?” If Isaac brought up the fact that he’d also proposed to Allison, Scott was going to ignore it as always. After all it wasn’t as if he could fault the man for that decision, and Scott wasn’t going to hold it against him.

Jordan, dressed as a knight, and who’s chainmail had to be much hotter—and certainly noisier—than any other costume in the room, passed them on his way back to Lydia and gave a salute with one of the glasses in his hand. Scott gave an acknowledging nod and raised his own cup slightly.

“Well Hellfire Scott,” Stiles voice was both amused and scathing—so Stiles’ usual if Scott was honest with himself. “You’re certainly already picking up on the mannerisms.”

Scott felt his ears flush, but bit back a smile as Isaac reached out and flicked Stiles’ hat off. “Why I’d even bet you could be charming for a night.”

At the mention of a bet Stiles’ stormy expression turned cunning. “How much did you bet?” He stooped down and scooped up his hat.

Rolling his eyes Scott huffed. “I’m going to leave now, before you pull me into some scheme.” Stiles might be his best friend but Scott was growing up, and he felt the need to be more responsible; getting into madcap adventures would just have to be a part of the past.

Stiles just rolled his eyes back. “Some friend you are.”

Taking the barb as the good-natured jibe it was Scott saluted them with his glass again. “Try not to set fire to anything.” The last thing Scott needed was another reason for Allison’s mother and grandfather to disprove of him.

As he began mingling again with a few of the guests a... _scent_ caught his attention. For a moment all Scott could feel was dread, after all he’d just been reminded that sooner or later he would become a cannibalistic wolf monster. He recalled the first full moon, when Deaton had told him he would shift. Except he hadn’t, Stiles and Deaton had come over and chained him up, far more tightly than he’d been comfortable with, but as the night passed nothing happened. Oh, true inside him there had been an urge to let go and howl at the moon; but Scott had resisted and before he knew it the sun had risen. They had repeated the exercise with every ensuing full moon with the same result.

Something about the _scent_ —he hated calling it that but that really was the only word for it—was familiar in a niggling way. Like he’d smelled it before, but long ago. Despite the urge to hunt it down and find out what it was he resisted, instead focusing on his—after all this _was_ his engagement party—guests. He and Allison eventually met up again, her sweet smile banishing any and all dark thoughts from his mind.

Sometime later in the party he saw Mr. Dimitriou, looking like he’d stepped out of _Julius Caesar_ or something like it, chatting with Jordan briefly before smiling and moving on. The scent caught his attention again, but just as before he resisted, instead steeling himself for the ensuing conversation with Gerard Argent.

As it grew later the party began to wind down, guests leaving.

“McCall.” Mr. Dimitriou’s voice behind him made Scott jump. Whirling around he saw the older man looking as calm as could be, but there also appeared to be a sort of nervous energy coming from him. “I’d like to speak a moment with you if I could.”

Odd, but not unusual. “Alright. Over there?” He gestured to the abandoned canape table. Mr. Dimitriou nodded, and as they walked over Scott began to realize the scent which had been taunting him was coming from Dimitriou; which made him frown.

Mr. Dimitriou leaned against the table and crossed his bare arms, the gold jewelry on them glinting slightly in the light. “It has come to my attention that something happened to you a few months ago that should not have happened.”

For a moment the words didn’t really register, the context lost on him. His mind did finally make the, hopefully, right connection. Dimitriou was talking about the bite. “What do you know about it?”

“Like I said, that it happened but shouldn’t have.” An expression of irritation flashed across his face, then was gone. “I wished to apologize for that, but despite what you might have been told it’s not the end of the world.” Dimitirou’s blue eyes were intense and concerned.

“What?” Scott felt bewildered, all of this coming from nowhere it seemed to him. Yet some part of him grew warier.

“It’s the start of a new one.” Dimitirou stepped closer, but Scott stepped back, one of his hands going into his pant pocket, wrapping around a warm vial of ground wolfsbane— _“Keep it on you at all times, it will be useful in helping us identify the werewolf.”_  “Human’s who think they know better will call you a monster. They’re wrong. _Let_ yourself give in, if you’ve resisted the transformation this long, then resisting the urge to consume human flesh should be easy for you.”

As subtly as he could Scott extracted the vial. It was all starting to make sense now. This started after Dimitriou arrived after all, and Scott wasn’t attacked until after they’d met.

“They call us monsters but we’re what the Gods made us to be. Not greater than humans, or lesser. Just different.” Dimitriou wasn’t trying to cajole him, but his words did have a sort of siren’s song quality to them; appropriately. “There is no shame in being that way, not if you can resist. Let me show you how.”

For a brief second Scott could see it, giving in and letting the bestial thing lurking in him consume him. Let Dimitriou guide him, lead him. He saw Allison approaching out of the corner of his eye and the illusion fell away. “What?” He hissed. “Turn me into a cannibal like you?” Without a second thought he raised the vial and tossed it at Dimitriou.

As it was supposed to it broke apart on Dimitriou’s face, cutting off the snarl that had been forming. A mere heartbeat after that smoke began rising from Dimitriou’s skin, from where the wolfsbane was burning him. “Fool,” it came out a threatening growl. Scott watched in riveted horror as Dimitriou’s face began to shift and contort, showing the beast that lurked beneath his skin.

Allison screamed, soon followed by Lydia.

-

Lydia dashed the tears from her eyes as she and Jordan entered their flat. It was ridiculous to cry. Peter was still alive, though they didn’t know where he was.

If anything she should be berating herself for being the fool and thinking that this happiness that they had begun to share could last.

Now all her friends thought Peter a monster that killed and ate people, something to be put down like a rabid dog.

Her heart gave a start as warm arms wrapped around her. “Shhh,” Jordan soothed, his hand beginning to rub up and down her back. “We’ll get through this Lydia, all three of us. That brilliant brain of yours will think of something.” His trust in her was sweet, but she felt as if she didn’t deserve it right now.

She let her tears flow onto his surcoat, not caring that she might be ruining it; barely noticing when Jordan stiffened, then relaxed. Not until another set of warmer arms encircled her, a nose and cheek starting to nuzzle her hair. “You are not a woman who should be crying Lydia. Ever.” Peter’s voice was a soft rumble, soothing and comforting. “I want you to be happy, not suffer and cry tears on my account.”

Closing her eyes for a moment she gave a relieved sigh. He was safe, _alive_ , and not hurt. He was here with them, where he was safest of all; the thought of which filled her with a comforting warmth. Tilting her head up she caught a glimpse of Peter’s face as she opened her eyes, while Jordan’s hand came up to wipe the tears from her face. “I’ll feel whatever I want over you Peter,” despite her whisper her voice was fierce.

“I know.” She caught a flash of Peter’s wan smile.

Jordan’s thumb kept brushing her cheek, the sensation helping to ground her. “Let’s go to bed, in the morning we can think of what to do.” His gaze turned just as fierce as Lydia’s voice. “Don’t think you can deal with this all on your own Peter, we’re going to _help_ you.”

“I had no doubt,” there was no trace of humor in Peter’s voice, just a sort of tiredness that Lydia could only agree with. This whole night had been far too much to deal with after Peter had transformed.

She felt wrung out and exhausted and only wanted to curl up with her two men and sleep for a dog’s age. Unwillingly she extracted herself from their embrace and began the drudge to the bedroom, shedding clothing as she went. Glad that a houppelande and kirtle were easier to remove than current dress.

Once she was down to her chemise she staggered over to her dresser to tug on a nightgown, only for Peter’s hand to snag her arm. “No, I want us all to be naked, no sex, but skin against skin is far more comforting.” He himself was already fully naked; the moonlight limned him and made him looked as if he’d stepped out of one of the great Greek epics, not one of many examples to why you shouldn’t test the gods.

She flushed. Before she could free her hand to do as he asked—she saw no reason not too, she already knew first hand how comforting flesh pressed against flesh could be—Jordan jangled and began cursing; having some obvious trouble getting out of his chain mail. Peter lifted her arm to kiss the skin there, then letting go went to help Jordan. “Seems like you need a squire.”

A fond smile crossed her face as she watched the two of them and their easy touches. Yet she felt jealous too as she slipped out of her undergarments, after all Jordan had shared something she had yet to with Peter. She knew it was foolish, because she’d have it too, soon. She just wished that ‘soon’ was more concrete than nebulous. With a soft sigh she crawled under the sheets, disliking the chill, but knowing they’d soon warm once Peter and Jordan got in.

Working together Jordan and Peter soon had the last of Jordan’s costume off, and she scooted off to the side to give them room to climb in. Sharing a quick glance with Jordan he insisted that Peter go before him. Even if he denied needing the comfort she and Jordan knew better.

Peter didn’t argue at all, seemingly more tired that even she thought he might be. “Are you alright?” Jordan asked softly as he pressed against Peter’s back.

“No,” Peter’s terse response took them both by surprise. Lydia quickly joining her husband and pressing her front against Peter’s. “It may have been a mild dose, but wolfsbane is still...draining.”

Leaning in Lydia pressed a kiss on Peter’s throat, one of her legs wrapping around both men. “We’ve got you Peter, you’re safe.”

Slowly Peter relaxed between them, his breathing evening out. Not in sleep, not quite yet, but certainly in a way that implied to Lydia at least that he trusted them.

“Sleep,” Jordan murmured in Peter’s hair. She watched as one of Jordan’s hands snaked around to rest on Peter’s chest. “We’ll look after you.”

Glancing up she could see Peter’s eyes begin to slide closed, but still she knew he wasn’t asleep. She pressed herself more firmly against him, Jordan’s hand touching her breasts as the position of her legs allowed Peter’s flaccid member to be cradled next to her mons. “Peter?” Her voice was whisper soft against his throat.

“Yes sweetheart?” Peter’s own low voice, soft and lazy, thrummed through her. Arousing, yes, but not in a way that demanded immediate satisfaction.

“I want you to take me tomorrow.” She wanted it so much.

Peter’s eyes didn’t open, but she could feel the way his attention shifted through his skin. “It would be my pleasure.” He leaned his head down and nuzzled her hair again. “I believe that means you need to sleep too.” Despite the sleepiness that had crept into his voice it was hard to miss the teasing note in it too.

Dutifully, but with a smile on her face, she closed her own eyes and buried her face in his should. “Good night Peter, good night Jordan.”

Jordan didn’t respond, probably already deep in sleep, but Peter gave a sleepy sound; one of his arms curling around her and keeping her firmly pressed against him.

-

Peter awoke surrounded by smooth flesh, steady heartbeats, and smells that had quickly become comforting to him—summer heat, dry fields, tea, and something chilly and final. Opening his eyes he saw that sometime in the night he had gotten turned over, his front now pressed against Jordan’s back, his hard cock nestled between the familiar curve of Jordan’s rear. Lydia’s delicate curves firmly against his back.

It made him smile, and despite how much he would love to slide into Jordan’s tightness, he’d made a promise of sorts to Lydia. A pleased hum escaped him at the thought of finally feeling those sweet folds around him.

Just because he had promised Lydia didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun with Jordan; after all the man needed to be _awake_ to witness his wife’s taking. Subtly he began rocking his hips, while a hand not so subtly began sliding down Jordan’s chest, knowing full well there were few better ways to wake a man.

Jordan stirred, but didn’t wake. Yet Peter found his actions having an unintended consequence as behind him Lydia also moved, her breathing shifting up towards wakefullness. Two birds with one stone then.

He stilled his hips, but kept his hand moving down, until he could encircle Jordan’s cock, which still had a softness about it that Peter found he liked. Not that it lasted long as he began to stroke the other man.

As his ministrations continued Jordan began shifting more, little, sleepy sounds, leaving him. As if they were calling her Lydia became more awake herself. “Morning,” her voice came out half a yawn as she nuzzled at the back of his neck—a vulnerability he found didn’t bother him as much as it should.

Instead he smiled into Jordan’s hair, strengthening his grip, wanting Jordan to wake up faster. “The same to you.” Feeling wholly unsurprised when one of Lydia’s fine hands snaked around him to tease a Jordan’s sack, making her husband groan.

Peter found himself curious now if Jordan would orgasm before he woke up, but the other man’s eyes soon began to flutter, his breathing shifting. Those lovely pale green eyes met his only for a second before Jordan threw his head back with a moan as seed spilled over his chest and Peter’s hand. “Good morning Jordan,” he murmured into Jordan’s ear, utterly pleased with himself.

Chest heaving, pupils dilated Jordan stared at him. Lazily Peter began licking his hand clean. “Have you ever tried your husband’s seed Lydia?” There was a wonderful sort of thrill at referring to either of them as the spouse of the other, a luscious reminder of what was occurring.

“N, no.” He rolled over just in time to see a pink flush creeping up her delightful breasts.

Smiling he ran his hand over Jordan’s chest to collect more, perhaps another day he’d lick it off the other man—if in his mind he called it grooming, well no one else needed to know—then turning his body further he offered said hand to Lydia. “Try it, it’s quite good.” There was the usual saltiness he expected, but there was a richness to it that was wholly unknown, and more pleasing for it.

Watching Lydia’s little pink tongue dart out to lick his hand made Peter groan, which turned into a pleased rumble when she returned to lap up more.

Behind him the bed shifted and he could feel Jordan’s chin nestle on his shoulder. “ _Oh_.” It amaze Peter that he got to experience so many of their firsts, he found it humbling—and distressing, how did people have sex in these times?

Lydia, despite her earlier hesitancy, cleaned his hand flawlessly. Her flush grew as she pulled away. “That…” Her eyes drifted to her husband, as if a whole new world of sexual delights had just opened before her. Peter would be delighted to slow her how to please a man with her mouth.

With a mischievous grin on his face he turned slightly again—dislodging Jordan—collecting the last of the semen on his hand he offered it to Jordan. “You should try yourself.”

Jordan laughed, but Peter could see a flush of his own starting to make it’s way up his chest—they really were both delightful. Yet like his wife he leaned in and gave a tentative lick. Unlike her he didn’t dive right back in for more, but made faces as if giving far more thought to the taste than he really needed to. “It’s different.”

Which made Peter throw his head back and laugh. An absurd sort of smile lingering as he cleaned up his own hand. Then he leaned down and gave Jordan a sloppy sort of kiss; the man responded more eagerly to that, and pouted when Peter pulled away.

Peter had other business to attend to. Rolling back over he saw that Lydia had moved slightly away, her pale body spread over the bed, fiery red hair everywhere. Getting onto his hands and knees he crawled over to her. “I do believe I made a promise to you my little goddess.”

His words seemed to reinforce her blush. Like Jordan she responded eagerly to his kiss, arching herself up just enough to make it easier for him. Enough that he could get a good grasp on her hair, tangling his fingers in it for a few brief moments.

She tried to follow as he pulled away, but he used his grip on her hair to hold her back. “I do love kissing you dear, but there are many other delightful things I wish to do to you.” As if to demonstrate he began kissing down her neck, exerting more pressure when he got to the crook of her neck and shoulder, enough to leave the beginnings of bruises.

A gasp left her and she arched further into his hold, while beside them Jordan grunted, one of his hands flying out to take one of Lydia’s. Their entwined hands leaving an impression in Peter’s mind as he moved down to her breasts. Letting go of her hair he moved his body down and cupped her breasts in his hands, burying his face in the valley between them. “So soft.” Then again all of Lydia was soft.

Her free hand began gliding through his hair making him rumble again. As in in reward he kissed a line of freckles on the side of one breast—curious that they only seemed to appear below her neck—then nuzzled them before moving his attention to her pale pink nipple.

Her grip tightened and she gave a soft cry as he licked it, with the same short, tentative licks she had used on his hand. Though his were done with far more purpose. In spite of the tightness of her grip it was an easy enough thing to pull away from her breasts and begin moving down her stomach, intent on sweeter treasures.

Until footsteps in the hall intruded. The rest of the city sounds were easy enough to ignore with the Parrishes, these sounded with purpose and if he wasn’t mistaken headed right for them. This time his rumble was one of anger. “Someone’s coming,” he muttered into Lydia’s belly. First Aristides and his foolishness, then the McCall boy, now this? He had hoped things would be going far smoother for him.

Lydia and Jordan looked at him, clearly bewildered as to why he’d stopped. Then came a knocking on the door.

Jordan was the first to jump to action, far easier for him to tug on his smalls and pull on a dressing gown than Lydia. Not that Lydia remained pliant on the bed, he went when she shoved at his shoulders and he watched her lithe form as it marched to the window and threw it open, her head peering out. “It’s a bit of a fall, but it will get you out.”

Something like relief crossed Jordan’s features, taking _Peter_ by surprise, and he gave a sharp nod and left to answer the door—whomever it was had been knocking nonstop. With a slowness that appeared to make Lydia anxious he got up.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, clearly having expected him to dive headfirst out the window.

He kept his movements slow and steady as he collected his clothes and dressed. “If I move too quickly they’ll hear something and become suspicious,” he responded quietly. “I’m looking out for you.” Reaching out he gently pulled her hair out of the way before she could accidentally catch it in her stays.

“Lydia,” he soothed his hand across her shoulder as he heard Jordan open the door and greet Stiles, and a Dr. Deaton. “Deep breaths, if you go out their anxious and afraid they’ll notice.” Leaning down he kissed the knob of her spine. “You’re far too above them to show them your fear.” With a touch he stilled her trembling fingers and helped them do up her stays.

He watched with pride as she pulled herself up straight while she tugged on her own dressing gown, tossing her hair to make it look more tousled and bed-messy. She turned around and her hazel eyes were hard with frustration and determination. “Stay safe.” She rose up onto her tip toes and kissed his chest through his unbuttoned shirt.

“As my goddess commands.” He would not be so foolish to compare her to any goddess. Although he did not doubt that she would be able to hold her own if any avenging goddess came to punish her, but he would still worship at her feet if she let him.

Her cheeks flushed and he had to turn away or risk kissing her. “Go,” he told her gruffly. “Convince your friend that all it well.”

He listened more than watched as she left the bedroom, and asked what the two guests were doing here so early. Despite any advantage he might gain from listening in on the conversation he turned to the window and looked out, then down. Far easier for him to leap onto the next rooftop than fall to the ground.

Once he was a few blocks away he let loose the snarl of rage building in him, he wouldn’t let himself be denied his pleasures, not this time.

-

Lydia kept her false smile plastered onto her face until she’d shut the door on Stiles and Deaton. Resting her forehead on the cool wood her whole body sagged and she found herself blinking back tears. Some logical part of her told her it was foolish to get this emotional over sex, but she’d wanted it with Peter for so long now, wanted _him_. She’d been so close to having him.

Warm arms encircled her and she felt Jordan’s familiar face press into her hair. “Why don’t we get dressed and we can go have breakfast in a cafe somewhere; talk about what Stiles and Deaton just told us.”

Yes, hunting Peter; like he were some sort of rabid animal. They already knew his London address and had intimated that they might go there to investigate, she hoped Peter never returned there, but they didn’t know of the place in Dover. Maybe she and Jordan could make an excuse of some sort and travel down there, they’d probably have more privacy than they clearly had here. Better that than staying at Scott’s house—apparently home base for the ‘hunters’.

Instead of agreeing however she turned around and kissed Jordan as hard as she could, his eyes looked far off when she pulled away. “I want to do that,” she agreed. “First I want you to fuck me right here.” She knew Jordan would give her the pleasure she was craving.

His pupils dilated rapidly, and the soft rumble that escaped him reminded her so much of Peter that she shivered. She squeaked when his hands left her only to hook around her thighs and hoist her up until she could wrap them around his waist. “Are you sure?” He whispered in her ear as his fingers danced designs on the exposed skin of her thighs.

“Yes,” she snarled softly. Her own hands shoving down his smalls and taking his cock in hand, one hand leaving to move aside her own clothes.

With her agreement Jordan helped and soon he was thrusting into her, hard. Her back hitting the door with every thrust. She wanted to be embarrassed that a neighbor might hear and gossip, but she wasn’t. Her nails dug into his back through his dressing gown as he grunted into her throat; his body knowing hers so well now that it moved without conscious thought to best please her.

Seemingly far too soon he spilled in her, a stark reminder that they’d forgotten the sponge. Not that she could find it in her to be truly annoyed, or much worried—she knew where she was in her cycle and it wasn’t likely that she would conceive. One of his fingers moved between them and toyed with her clit, sending her off into her own orgasm. As it rushed through her she sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder, laying soft kisses on the fabric there. “Thank you.”

He turned his own head and she felt his nose brush the line of her hair. “I love you Lydia.” A different sort of warmth and pleasure filled her at his words.

“I love you too Jordan, with all my heart.” She did, perhaps that was what amazed her most about this liaison they were conducting. That she felt such passion and yearning for Peter, and yet her affection and desire for her husband did not diminish.

Jordan set her down gently, and together they retreated to their bedroom, falling easily into their usual morning routine. Although to Lydia putting on all her layers of petticoats felt more like strapping on armor; the comparison didn’t trouble her as much as she thought it would.

Arm in arm she and Jordan left their flat and made their way to one of the nearby cafe’s they preferred. And as they ate they plotted.


	17. Interlude VIII

_Dear brother,_

_I hope this letter reaches you in good time Archelaos, and I hope I am not imposing too much upon you by asking for some favor._

_I wish to purchase land somewhere in America. I do not have much preference as to where, I trust your judgement on that matter. Only I would much prefer not to be surrounded by so much humanity that it is crushing. I trust your judgement on that as well, you have known me long enough that you know what I enjoy._

_America must be treating you well since you have yet to return to the homeland, and I am glad you have not lost yourself again. I would hope that we could see each other upon my arrival (I shall send you another letter as that time approaches) and trust you are in good health. Helix tells me that you were married this past decade, and so I will offer congratulations and wish the both of you well._

_If you wish to contact me I think it would be best to send to the address provided below, and not the one I will send this from, as I do not know how long I shall be able to remain. It seems once again that I have had poor choice in packmates, perhaps I will send him ahead and hope that your preferred method of rustication will drive some common sense into him. You may laugh if you’d like._

_Your brother eternal,_

_Petros_

_-_

_Petros,_

_Do I even wish to know what trouble you have gotten yourself into this time? I’m sure you shall be able to trick your way out of it just like the rest (blessed by Hermes I’m sure). I will have your land, and when you arrive I shall meet you in New York City. Braeden, my wife, seems to think you might be amusing and is curious to meet you._

_Your brother eternal,_

_Derek_

_(Yes I chose to give up my name, Archelaos was too cumbersome and incongruous to keep. There are many strange names here in America but too strange and you will stick out more than you would like.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild Derek appears!!


	18. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are folks, this chapter contains the scene that started this whole AU (the third one if you're curious).
> 
> Also if you noticed I did put an end in the chapters, because I've officially finished writing Lycaon.
> 
> (Oops sorry for not posting this yesterday, I got distracted by other things!)

In a way it was a sort of relief to have the Parrishes at Scott’s house, Stiles mused. After all it was easier to keep everyone safe when they were all, or nearly all, in one place. And with Scott’s mother not in residence, Scott having convinced her to take the air up north for a time, they hardly needed to hide anything.

Ostensibly Jordan knew more about Dimitriou than all of them, having lived with the man for two months and continued a friendship with him here in London. Part of Stiles wanted to assign some moral failing to Jordan for that, but the more charitable parts of him reminded of how charming Dimitriou had been the two or three times that they had met. It made sense that a demon such as himself would be so charming, all the easier to lead others down the path of evil.

It did smart to see Lydia murmuring comforts to her husband over the betrayal. Logically Stiles knew that Lydia would never see him in a romantic light, but that didn’t stop his heart.

He couldn’t help his smugness however when Lydia’d seen the books Deaton had accrued.

“These are all on werewolves?” She asked amazed. Next to her Jordan gave a soft huff, then dipped down to kiss her cheek, whispering something in her ear before excusing himself.

Stiles trailed after her as she went up to them. “Near enough, some are on demons in general. There’s certainly more information out there than I thought there would be.” Which meant his mentor had most likely been right, to discount the phenomenon of werewolfism was the height of foolishness. “Isaac and I have been going through it and making notes on what we think are the most important parts.” Mainly the best ways to kill the beast, but he wouldn’t bother Lydia with that detail.

For a moment, as Lydia’s finger grazed one of the leather covers. Her expression seemed torn, as if she’d thought of something distasteful to contemplate. A heartbeat later she sighed. “Your handwriting is atrocious. I dare hope someone with a more legible hand is making a copy for you.”

“Lydia, you’re a credit to women everywhere.” If he had the right he would have leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Would you mind ever so much doing it?” He couldn’t think of anyone he would trust more, or who had more legible handwriting.

She glanced away briefly before looking at him again. “I would hardly refuse,” she demurred.

Leaving her he pulled out a nearby seat. “Make yourself comfortable then and I’ll fetch our notes and supplies for you.” He’d made it to the door before recalling that he already had an important piece with him. Striding back to Lydia, who had already started to organize the books around her, he pulled a small notebook—similar to the type he used in his job—from his breast pocket.

“This has all my thoughts and ideas so far on all that has happened, as well as a reasonably accurate timeline. I will apologize thought that it is probably even less comprehensible than my usual scribble.” He gave a smile at his own joke.

She gave an indulgent huff as she took it from his hand. “I dare say I will muddle through as always. I read your letters well enough now.” She returned his smile, making him feel proud.

“Alright, now I really shall be back soon.” He dashed from the room and after informing Deaton of Lydia’s suggestion and task began collecting what she would require.

-

Scott, despite the general air of gloom that had pervaded the past few days since they had discovered who the werewolf was, felt nearly effervescent as he, Allison, Isaac, and Stiles exited the theater. He had perhaps drunk too much beer, but that hardly bothered him as they waited for the street to clear enough for them to hail a carriage of their own.

Allison and Stiles were deep in conversation over the play, one by Molière the title of which Scott had already forgotten, while Isaac’s hand kept drifting towards the holster fairly well concealed under his suit jacket. After he’d done it two more times Scott reached out and stopped him. “I admire your concern, but I think there’re far too many people here for us to be in any sort of danger.” He managed to hold back his shudder at recalling when Dimitriou had attacked him.

“That’ll hardly keep me from worrying,” Isaac responded absently, eyes drifting over the crowd. “Feel like I’m back in California again and some banditos are gearing up to rustle my livelihood.”

Having never experienced life on a farm like Isaac had Scott had no idea if the assessment was a fair one or not. He trusted his friend’s judgement.

“I’ve got your back.” True Scott had never been in anything worse than a schoolyard scuffle but there wasn’t much effort to be put into injecting someone with a poison. He had dealt with enough recalcitrant animals in his time.

Isaac turned slightly and smiled, reaching out to slap him on the back. “I wouldn’t have it any other way Scott.”

“Hey!” Both he and Isaac looked up to see Stiles gesturing at them, a carriage sitting idly in the street next to him. Exchanging glances he and Isaac hurried over, Isaac letting Scott get in first and sit next to Allison, who took his hand and squeezed.

He smiled and raised their joined hands to kiss the back of hers, across from them Stiles made a gagging sound as the carriage took off.

The ride to Beaudell was filled with good conversation and cheer, which pleased Scott. Despite his affection for Isaac there had been a niggling fear that things between them might go sour after Allison had turned him down, yet that hadn’t come to pass.

When the carriage pulled up Scott stepped down and assisted Allison in her descent, being the gentleman he’d been raised as and escorting her to the door. She smiled up at him. “Thank you Scott, I had a lovely evening.”

He smiled back and gave her a brief kiss. “Thank you for agreeing to come.” If nothing else she helped sooth his frantic mind.

Allison knocked on the door, but as the time passed and no one answered they both grew concerned. When Scott tried the door it opened easily, it having been unlocked. They exchanged worried glances and stepped in cautiously. The foyer was empty, and a disturbingly familiar coppery scent reached his nose, making dread curdle Scott’s stomach. “Allison, I need you to stay right here alright? I’m going to get Stiles and Isaac, something’s not right.”

“Alright.” He ducked in and gave her another kiss before running to the the carriage.

When the three of them returned, Allison wasn’t waiting for them. Scott felt a shock of fear. Tempered by relief as Isaac pulled out his gun and Stiles handed him a vial of wolfsbane powder. “We’ll find her,” Stiles reassured.

Together they moved deeper into Beaudell, the smell of blood getting stronger, and yet every room they came across was empty. Tension made Scott anxious, and made him wish he had some laudanum to douse himself with to calm his nerves. Barring that he steeled his spine as they continued.

In the library the found the first bodies. Kate and Mrs. Argent, their throats slashed. Scott quickly retreated into the hall, biting back the urge to vomit; Stiles and Isaac followed, they both looked a little green as well.

As if finding the two women broke a dam of some sort, they found bodies in nearly every room after, all with their throats slashed. Clearly the work of Dimitriou. Scott began to feel guilt the more bodies they stumbled across, this had happened because he’d refused Dimitriou; and he could only hope that Allison wouldn’t be next.

They found Allison in the kitchen, with a man, who wasn’t Dimitriou. In fact he looked familiar, although Scott couldn’t place him at the moment. Being more concerned with the fact the man’s eyes were glowing golden and there were claws pressed into Allison’s throat. Her brown eyes glittered with fear as she spotted them. At their feet was the body of Gerard.

“Ah.” The man had spotted them too now. “The fearless hunters too little too late.” He gave them a toothy smile. “How does it feel to have failed so utterly?” Despite his braggadocio, the man looked unwell, his skin sallow under the bright electric lights.

Behind him Scott heard the faint click of Isaac cooking his revolver. “Let Ms. Argent go, or you’ll get one between the eyes.” Scott didn’t doubt Isaac and felt relief that his friend had managed to keep his head.

The man laughed, and Scott saw pinpricks of blood rise up on Allison’s neck. “You’d shoot me to protect the girl who rejected you Lahey? That’s quite big of you.”

A shock ran through the three of them at the mention of Isaac’s last name. This man knew them? Scott’s mind raced to figure out why he was so familiar. Stiles got there faster than either of them.

“Oh my God. Jackson? What happened to you?”

This...this was Jackson? “You’d gone missing. Your parents think you’re _dead_.”

Jackson bared wolf-sharp teeth at them, swaying, sweat clearly visible on his brow. “I’m _not_ Jackson. As far as I’m concerned he _did_ die. I’m better now.” Despite his weakness he straightened. “I’m so far above all of you now it doesn’t even matter anymore.”

“You let that bastard bite you?” Isaac bit out, his face looking appalled—and having forgotten there was a woman in the room, not that Scott blamed him.

“Of course I did, pass up the chance to be an immortal being?” Jackson scoffed, “I think…” whatever he thought fell to the wayside as his eyelids fluttered and he collapsed, thankfully releasing Allison in the process.

She rushed to them, “ _Grandpère_ , he, he injected Jackson with something…” She burst into tears and Scott held her, looking hopelessly over her at Isaac and Stiles.

-

They had Jackson in a circle of mountain ash, bound in silver chains to a chair, and it showed. His skin was sallow, his eyes had a vaguely glossy look to them that Stiles associated with opium use, and his breathing was only in short pants. Despite his ill appearance Jackson still seemed frightfully _alive_ , even after having killed the Argents. It didn’t help that he had a smile about his face that teased of secrets they didn’t know.

Stiles knew it was sheer dumb luck that Allison had been with them at the time—he shuddered to think of her body amongst the massacre of her family—he wished he could have stopped her from seeing it. She’d become hysterical and Stiles had had to dose her with a sleeping draught, she now lay lucked up in one of the rooms, fast asleep. Hopefully her mind would be relatively whole when she awoke.

“Mr. Whittemore,” Deaton began, only to be interrupted by Jackson.

“Aristides,” he snarled, a hint of too sharp teeth showing in his mouth—and displaying what poor control he had compared to Dimitriou. “My name is Aristides now.”

The four of them exchanged looks, unsure of whether to indulge Jackson’s madness or not. Stiles was inclined towards the latter, since Jackson had always thought himself above the rest of them and it would be nice to knock him down a peg or two, on the other hand if they called him by the name he preferred he might be persuaded to share more of Dimitriou’s secrets.

Scott, wonderfully foolish Scott, stepped right up to the edge of the mountain ash ring. “Aristides,” he said, attempting to mimic Jackson’s pronunciation.

Jackson smiled. “Hello brother,” he inhaled. “Not quite. But soon.”

Blanching Scott stumbled back, Isaac catching him. “No! Deaton-”

“What McCall?” This time Jackson’s wolfish smile looked on purpose. “Deaton’ll cure you?” His eyes, seeming to glow faintly in the light, cut to Deaton. “That’s quite the viper oil you’re selling then.” He began to laugh, however it quickly turned into a harsh coughing fit.

“Don’t think you can rightly throw stones at this point,” Isaac said with wonderfully bland sarcasm, giving Scott a pat on the back.

Jackson managed a weak laugh. “I’ve never promised someone an impossible cure.” He coughed again, and when he righted his cheeks looked sunken. “Anyways, I’ll be stronger soon. Peter’s on the prowl for another packmate.”

The tension in the room rocketed up, everyone now focused solely on Jackson. “Who?” Stiles found himself demanding. Bad enough that Dimitriou bit Scott, though despite the severity of it Scott didn’t seem to exhibit any other signs of werewolfism other than the strong sense of smell, but another person too?

“Well Stilinski, since you asked so nicely.” As Jackson spoke his voice grew reedier, and his breathing more labored—in Stiles’ opinion he wasn’t long for this world. All for the better in Stiles’ mind. It meant they had one less werewolf to deal with, and that the Argent’s killer would see the justice he so richly deserved sooner rather than later. “He thought he’d go for something pretty this time, a woman.” Anger rose in Stiles at the thought of Dimitriou sinking his teeth into some poor defenseless woman. “One with a flame colored pelt to-” whatever else Jackson was going to say was cut off as he began coughing again.

“What’s happening to him?” Scott looked worried.

Deaton frowned as they watched Jackson shudder. “Perhaps the silver chains were too much. Whatever Gerard must have done to him before succumbing to his wounds seems to be making his reaction to them much worse than normal.”

A loud clatter stopped the conversation dead and they looked to see Jackson had shaken so much that both he and the chair had fallen to the side—lucky them that the ring they’d made was big enough in case he had done such a thing on purpose to attempt an escape—eyes rolling in his head as he hacked and coughed.

He inhaled sharply once, then his whole body went limp, and the light in his eyes appeared to dwindle away.

“He’s playing possum,” Isaac declared.

Deaton shook his head. “No. I fear he is truly dead. Stiles, would you do the honors and check?” A warmth grew in his chest at being singled out like that. “Just in case, Isaac, Scott, I do believe we should don our gloves and grab some wolfsbane…”

Stiles had the sense of mind to wait until the other three were ready before breaking the circle. He didn’t go in right away, waiting to see if Jackson suddenly lunged up to take advantage of the break. After nothing happened for a minute Stiles took a bracing breath and walked towards what was hopefully Jackson’s corpse. Once he was right beside it he crouched down and settled two fingers on the carotid artery and pressed. “No pulse,” he announced.

He knew there were tricks one could use to slow their pulse, he’d heard quite a few tales of far eastern mystic men who could control their pulse as easily as any other man might control his pace. Pulling out the small mirror he kept in his pocket he held it up to Jackson’s mouth. A minute or so later he stood. “No breath either. He’s dead.” _G_ _ood riddance_ , Stiles thought.

Scott looked a little sad, which just went to show how good his heart was. “We have an idea of what Dimitriou's going to do next. Granted there are a lot of redhaired women in Britain.”

“He can’t be too happy that Jackson’s dead either,” Isaac added.

“Both good points,” Deaton said. “I do believe Dimitriou will attempt to strike at us again, to try and splinter us once more, as he attempted to do with Scott. So it is certain it will be someone one of us knows.”

Satisfaction congealed to dread in the pit of Stiles’ belly. “Lydia.” Without a second thought he yanked on some gloves, snagged a stalk of wolfsbane, and raced towards the room Scott’d given her and Jordan, grateful when he heard the rapid footsteps of his friends behind him.

It was a dreadful scene they burst in upon, all four of them recoiling in shock: for there upon the bed lay not only Lydia and Jordan, but Dimitriou as well! Jordan lay, looking flushed and panting beneath Lydia whose face was pressed into his neck as if to bite him while Dimitriou's whole front was against her back, pressing her down.

At Stiles and the other's indrawn breaths, both Lydia and Dimitriou turned to them—it seemed Jordan didn't have enough strength to even stay conscious—revealing a disturbingly erotic display. Dimitriou's shirt had been torn open, and upon his chest was a rapidly healing cut; Lydia's own nightgown was stained, torn, and disheveled, the lower part of her face covered in blood and clear-white smears.

Dimitriou snarled, his mouth full of a frightful number of teeth, at their interruption of his profanity and leapt off Lydia. Revealing that he'd been holding her hands behind her back, but before he could do all else Deaton stepped bravely forward brandishing his stalk of wolfsbane. If anything Dimitriou's snarling grew more incensed, but he did not move.

Emboldened by the action of his former mentor Stiles stepped up as well, making sure his own freshly picked stalk was firmly in his gloved grip. Scott and Isaac soon joined them and with great bravery they drove Peter towards the window, which he quickly leapt from, into the gardens below. Out of the corner of his eye Stiles saw Isaac drop his stalk and draw his gun before turning and running out the door. “I'll catch him!” He was gone before any of them could respond.

Not that they could be distracted, Stiles and Scott followed Deaton's example in dropping their own stalks and stripping off the deadly gloves. Deaton grabbed an afghan off the couch and approached the gruesome bed, just in time as well.

For just after Deaton's first step Lydia seemed to come somewhat to her senses and began a soul-destroying wail, one that Stiles was sure he'd hear again on his deathbed. He resisted the urge to cover his ears—though he noticed Scott had done so—and followed after Deaton.

Lydia's wailing soon stopped though, replaced instead by insensate staring at Jordan below her. As if she couldn't comprehend the deed she may have just done. Then he and Deaton were there, Deaton throwing the afghan over her shoulders, concealing her state. “Stiles, be gentle and take her to the couch, and I shall see what can be done to Mr. Parrish.” He quickly departed.

Stiles nearly offered her his hand before recalling she wasn't herself at the moment and might not know what he intended, so instead he reached out and lightly grasped the arm nearest to him and her far shoulder. “Come on Lydia,” he kept his tone soothing as if he were talking to a wild animal. “Let's get you over to the couch and clean you up a little.”

As they approached Scott he became nearly as pale as Lydia before covering his mouth and dashing from the room. Stiles bit back his angry outburst and mentally consoled himself. If Scott, who'd been _bitten_ by Dimitriou still couldn't stomach such a sight then there was still the possibility of saving him, regardless of what Jackson had said. By the time the two of them had reached the couch Deaton had returned with a slightly steaming bowl of water and two washcloths.

Quickly Stiles dampened one and brought it over to Lydia, who still stared blankly into nothing—despite what she always told him about her strong mind, what had just happened still must have been a shock. Feeling old love well up he cleaned her face with care, his sometimes ignored sense of propriety insisting he stop there; not even letting him clean the bite clear as day on her lower neck.

“Ah!” Grateful for the distraction Stiles turned to see Deaton helping Parrish, looking nearly as pale as his wife, upright. Jordan looked dazed for a moment, but only until his gaze fell on Lydia. The sight of her seemed to spur a rapid recovery and soon he'd leapt up and grabbed the trousers that had been discarded on the floor.

“What is going on? What has happened?” He sounded frantic, and were he a woman Stiles would have considered him near hysteria.

His words though spawned some action in Lydia, who for a second looked as if she were going to go and embrace him, but she only stretched out her arms—Stiles found himself looking away—then sobbed quietly. When Stiles let his gaze return her arms were wrapped around herself.

Jordan strode towards Lydia. “Why is there blood on your nightgown Lydia?” Jordan stopped mid-step. “Does this mean–”

“No.” Deaton rapidly scooped another blanket up, this time from the bed, and put it around Jordan. “She has been bitten yes, but it does not look as if it was intended to turn her.”

Under the blanket his shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh merciful God.” Just as quickly his shoulders squared again. “Stiles, Dr. Deaton, I beg you look after Lydia. I will find and slaughter this beast myself,” from the anger in Jordan's tone Stiles didn't doubt him.

Before he or Deaton could respond Lydia dived from her seat, leaving the blanket behind her. Soon her arms were wrapped around Jordan's knees and her face was briefly buried in the fabric of his pants as she cried for a brief moment. She pulled away and looked up at Jordan. “No dearest, you must not! _Please_ remain here, or I fear I may fret myself to death in light of all that seems to have happened. I need you here to console my wretched spirit!”

Jordan looked about as surprised by this outburst as Stiles and Deaton, but it at least caused him to relent. Instead he dislodged Lydia, and with infinite care picked her up and took the both of them back to the couch. “I will stay.”

“You needn't fear again Mrs. Parrish, Stiles and I shall line the windows with wolfsbane and make a circle of mountain ash, the monster cannot pass either and you will be safe.”

At his words Lydia buried her face into the blanket around her husband and began crying again. Jordan wrapped his arms around her and began to sooth her. It was horrid to think of but he and Deaton needed to hear their accounts of what had transpired in the hopes Dimitriou had revealed something to them.

Finally Lydia seemed more in control of herself and pulled away, though all her work seemed nearly undone when she saw the blood the wound on her neck had left on Jordan's blanket. Jordan held her tightly though as she struggled to escape. “Lydia, Lydia. It's done, he's gone and we are safe. What's been done to you can still be undone.” He looked to Deaton imploringly.

Deaton nodded. “Indeed. I do not understand why, but his bite will not turn you.” Stiles wished he could have his mentor’s surety, for he saw no difference in this bite and the one that Dimitriou had given Scott.

Now it was Lydia's shoulders that sagged in relief, her hands—revealing the wretched red marks of Dimitriou's hands upon her wrists—covering her face as she hid her shame. Jordan pulled her closer to him, rearranging his blanket to encircle them both.

Hating that he had to do it Stiles pulled out his notebook and his chinagraph pencil. As he began writing he spoke aloud, thus letting Jordan and Lydia hear his account what had happened with Jackson and to them, and to allow Deaton to correct any of his errors.

If anything Lydia's appearance grew paler during his recounting of how they had found them. Though she never once tried to escape Jordan again, her husband's hands running repeatedly through her hair.

In another bout of good timing Isaac and Scott re-entered the chamber soon after Stiles had finished his notes. Isaac looked in a right mood, “I'm sure I saw that no-good”—he hesitated as if only just recalling Lydia was there as well—“wolf dashing away, but I couldn't get my sights on him long enough.”

Stiles felt certain that his relief was shared by all. Until Scott spoke. “I don't know how, but I think he got into the study. It's a mess and there's a fire roaring in the fireplace.”

Something in Stiles sunk, the thought of having to organize and retype everything once more a daunting task. Deaton's lips twitched briefly. “He may have destroyed one record, but then it is good we have two! Come morning I think best we take it somewhere more safe than this.” He'd nearly forgotten Lydia's work had been done on carbonic paper, though he hardly had time to relish that victory. Deaton then turned his attentions back to Lydia. “Mrs. Parrish, I know you will recoil from such a suggestion but we must hear your account now, while it is still fresh in your mind, and so that you may not have to repeat it again nor recall it anymore.”

Tentatively Lydia nodded, burying one side of her face in the blanket, while Stiles knew such affection was usually indecorous no one protested. “I took the sleeping draught I asked Stiles to make me, for my sleep has been plagued by wretched nightmares I beg you leave be. Yet still I had trouble sleeping, and by the time Jordan joined me my state was only that between sleeping and waking. Time passed and soon I felt I must have truly fallen asleep for I began to hear the clicking of dog nails against wood.”

Her state made her appear even more small and delicate than usual and Stiles didn't bother resisting the protective desire that rose up in him. "The sound came to the bed and I could not even feel fear as I watched the wolf turn into...him.” She pulled away from Jordan long enough to give them a fierce gaze—which Stiles found highly reassuring. “I _tried_ to get away but it was as if his hellish gaze had me caught and I could do nothing as he took my face in his hands and leaned in. 'My sweet dread Praxidike.'"

Lydia seemed to quaver a moment like those words could not be borne. Though Stiles didn't quite understand why Dimitriou would use such strange titles for a sweet goddess like Persephone—even if that was one of her epitaphs—why not just call her by name? Before he could wonder that thought aloud Lydia spoke again. “He leaned in even closer, until I could feel his burning breath against my ear. 'You will do everything I instruct or I shall tear out the throat of your wretched Adonis.'”

Stiles shivered, finding himself reminded of the story that Dimitriou had told them what felt like ages ago; had he been plotting this even then and telling them of his plans?

Oblivious to seemingly everything but Jordan, Lydia continued. “He made me…” Once again she buried her face in Jordan’s neck, a blush clear on her face, which most certainly mirrored the one on all their cheeks. “Dimitriou bit me while I did that _horrifying_ thing.”

“I awoke sometime during.” Jordan stepped in, seemingly glad to take the tale from his wife. “He must have done something to me as well, because I was insensate and could hardly move. She looked so scared when he moved her atop me, settling in behind her. ‘He is yours,’ he told her. ‘You own him, body and soul. Show him what it is to be loved by a goddess.’” Now Jordan was the one who shuddered, and rightly so Stiles thought; a wife owning her husband? Preposterous.

Jordan recovered faster than Lydia. “That was when he cut himself giving some of the blood to Lydia and then me, ‘so that you won’t lose yourselves,’ he’d told us with a laugh. He pressed her towards me and I found myself growing faint. You must have entered the room soon after.”

Frowning Stiles wrote the last of the account. “What did he mean ‘you won’t lose yourselves’? I didn’t think werewolf blood had any sort of special properties.”

“Who cares about the ‘whys’?” Isaac responded. “It just show’s he’s even more of a monster.” The other man shuddered. “Having them drink blood? Something out of a ghost story that.”

Stiles might heartily agree, but it was a curious thing. Doing unspeakable evils to Lydia and Parrish, but giving them something that may help them? Granted Dimitriou’s mind was likely a strange and chaotic place, better suited to a patient at Bedlam than any sane, civilized person. Making sure that the ink had dried he closed his notebook and turned to Deaton. “What are we going to do?” Right now it still felt as if Dimitriou was jerking them about like fish on the line, but Stiles couldn’t think of anything close to a plan, not like himself at all.

“We will go out, try to catch him before he returns to his hotel. It is late enough that we shouldn’t have to worry about encountering anyone, beyond the occasional police patrol.” Deaton finally answered. “Mr. McCall, Lahey, if you both would be so kind as to gather some things? Stiles, you and I shall take a quick look through our notes to make sure we have not missed a thing.”

Parrish stood, gently wrapping his portion of the blanket around Lydia. “I’m going with you.” Stiles had to hand it to the other man, he hardly looked like he’d been harmed.

“Mr. Parrish…” But before Deaton could protest further Parrish shook his head.

“I know you think I should stay and protect Lydia, but with Dimitriou on the ropes and Aristides captured…”

“Dead,” Scott interrupted. “Jackson died.”

For a moment Stiles feared Lydia would faint dead away at the revelation, but she managed to keep hold of herself, proving how great her character was, a shining example to her fellow women.

“Even better. Here is far safer for Lydia than anywhere else, and you would do better with another in your party.”

They shared looks, none of them wanting to deny the truth of Parrish’s words.

Finally Deaton nodded. “Alright, Mr. Parrish, you may come with us.”

-

Lydia paced the circle of mountain ash restlessly. She knew why the men hadn’t let her accompany them, and part of her was grateful to linger. The rest of her wished she had gone with them, to feel the thrill of the hunt. If it would make her blood sing in the same way sex did, or if it was a different thrill altogether. Yet she was also glad the performance she and Jordan had done had fooled the others; perhaps the two of them should take it up as a career, she thought with a wry smile.

Reaching the circle itself once again, she reached out. Her hand encountered a barrier of some sort, and faint sparks fizzed against her palm. “m _ountain ash is protective Mrs. Parrish, it will not let any sort of supernatural creature in, no matter how much he might wish it."_ If that were the case then she should be able to exit whenever she wanted, yet she was trapped like a fish in a small pond.

She began pacing, nerves nipping at her heels, at least until she saw a familiar form lurking on the shadows.“Peter!” Almost as if the mere mention of his name was enough the bite he’d left on her neck tingled—Deaton had wondered earlier why it would not change her and it’d been such a struggle to not tell him.

His wolfish smile cut through the darkness as he stepped towards her.

“We were worried about you,” she told him. Already she was missing the taste of blood and semen on her tongue, and her earlier frustration of orgasm denied returned—twice over now if one counted the other day.

He stepped even closer. “Apologies sweet, I wish I could have stayed as well. Yet it seems that Aristides played his part far too well, and revealed too much,” he gave a huff. “That boy is more nuisance than asset, pulling my attention away from where it should be.” He now stood right in front of the circle and began to reach out.

“Peter,” this time her voice held warning in it.

His smile reassured. “I am not some witch to be dissuaded by tree ashes, my sweet.” As if to prove his words his hand passed through whatever invisible barrier she herself couldn’t cross.

“Then what does that make me?” Once more she raised her hand and put it against the barrier.

Peter’s eyes widened. “Curiouser and curiouser.” He stepped to her, one of his shoes scuffing the circle. “I know you are no witch sweetness. I know well their taste.” He licked his lips and she shivered. “You have none of it. Perhaps the three of us will find our answers somewhere else.” He took her in his arms, pulling her flush against him. “First, I should see to you. Make sure you get what you need. I’d hate for your husband to think I’ve been lax in my care.”

Her desire from earlier returned, and she gave a delicate moan as Peter pulled her up for a kiss. Yes, with Jordan off to look after Peter’s interests it would be up to Peter to see to her satisfaction. She didn’t struggle when he scooped her up, or when he deposited her on what she realized was the couch. “Not the bed?” She gasped out as they finally broke their kiss; she thought he’d broken the circle so they could move there.

A low rumble of a growl escaped him. “If we were in the bed sweetling, I wouldn’t be able to resist taking you. It smells far too much of sex and us.” He ground against her, the feel of his manhood made her writhe. “We agreed your husband would be there the first time it happened.”

She wanted to tell him to damn their agreement, she needed that hot hard flesh—so like and unlike Jordan’s—inside her. She had been denied so long now, it felt, she _deserved it_. The lascivious grin he gave her had her keeping those words in. “That doesn’t mean I can’t please you, sweet Lydia. Just lie back and relax.” His smile shifted in such a way that she couldn’t help but melt and nod, leaning against the back of the couch.

He leaned in and nuzzled at her cheek, filling her own nose with his smell, rich and ancient, with a mustiness that reminded her of her childhood dog. His teeth set themselves in her earlobe for a brief second before he was gone, head moving downwards to mouth at her breasts through her thin chemise—not the ‘ruined’ one sadly, she thought Stiles might have taken it to be burned.

Without thought her fingers wove into his hair, clutching tightly; a soft sigh escaping her. Peter chuckled as his tongue darted out to tease her nipple. “So quiet. It’s amazing.” He moved down to her belly, nipping at the skin there. “I want to see you swollen with child. All fecund and ripe.” She shivered at his words. “A goddess in true.”

His words were blasphemous, but in her heart of hearts she loved to hear them. Loved to be elevated to a position of such power. She kept her mouth closed at she giddily watched him move lower still. He kissed the inside of her knee making her jump, the tickling sensation catching her off guard.

Before she could fully process the sensation he was moving again, head slipping under the hem of her chemise. Anticipation made her squirm, while the first time Jordan had done it had been far beyond her wildest dreams it had also been frightening to be taken so. Now though, she loved it, loved how much care Jordan lavished her with when he did so. Curiosity filled her to know how Peter would perform that act differently.

Peter chuckled again, his hot breath right against her entrance making her legs part wider. “Peter,” she whimpered.

“Relax my desponia,” his tongue gave her a broad stroke. “Let me give you a most sacred worship. As you deserve.”

His words had her slumping, legs hooking over his shoulders and her hips pressing her cunny—she shivered again at using such a crude word, even in the privacy of her own mind—against his lips. “Yes,” she sighed. Her fingers hiking up the skirt of her chemise to allow her to touch him again. “Peter, my lord.” It was the first time she’s called him that, joining in on his game. It felt  _obscene_ , and not just because she was about to have congress with a man not her husband.

Peter’s reaction was immediate though, he rumbled in pleasure bringing another whimper to her lips. She could faintly feel his sharp, inhuman teeth press against her skin. She sighed as his fingers traced up her thighs, dipping into her soft flesh to part her lips, as his tongue began to ravish her.

“Oh.” Her eyes widened as her head fell back, her body moving of it’s own volition, demanding more of these divine sensations. “Peeter.”

He picked up his pace, his fingers beginning to slide in and out as he lapped at her, drinking down the cream her aroused state produced. Occasionally he’d touch her clit, making her cry out softly and move again.

As orgasm crashed over her she found herself wanting more, needing something larger than fingers inside of her, stretching and filling her with jism. She made a sound of displeasure when he pulled away, but when she saw his face covered in her cream heat filled her again. “Thank you.” She squirmed again. “Not that it helped.”

Peter’s eyes darkened as he began cleaning himself. “I’m sorry sweetling, but I won’t go against our agreement.”

She both hated him and loved him for that. With a sigh she straightened her chemise. “I wish they hadn’t come at all.” It had felt like they were so close to something important and then Stiles and the others had to intrude.

He darted upward and kissed her lightly. “I know dear Lydia. Soon.” He stood and offered her a hand. “Now we’ll have to put you back in that circle and I must leave,” he sounded sad.

She took his head and let him haul her up, pulling her flush against him. He ducked down and kissed her again. “Make sure your husband gets that, and let him know I’m sorry he missed this encounter.” A third kiss. “That one is all for you.”

Lydia smiled. “I will. And Peter, stay safe.”

“As my goddess commands,” he gave little bow and then walked her back to the remains of the circle, letting go of her hand as she moved into it to crouch down and realign the mountain ash. To test that the circle’s been completed Lydia raised her hand and attempted to push it out the circle, but once more the barrier prevented her from doing so.

He gave a small nod. “I’ll get in touch with you both later.” She watched him walked off.

-

In the end they returned to the McCall house, a mixture of both cheer and disappointment. When Jordan got to their room he saw Lydia resting on the couch. He broke the circle and went to her, resting his hand on her shoulder, “Lydia.”

He felt her start beneath him, and barely a second later her eyes opened. “Jordan.” She threw her arms around his shoulders and buried her face in his neck. “He came while you were gone,” she murmured against his throat. “He told me to give you this.” She pulled away and kissed him.

He returned it with pleasure, smiling when they pulled apart. “No wonder our own end was a disappointment then. How did he get through the circle? It didn’t look like it had been broken when I came in.”

“It didn’t work on him, he just passed right through, but Jordan…” As she drifted off she averted her gaze; making worry fill him.

Gently he reached out and turned her head back to look at him. “What is it Lydia?”

“I,” she blew out a gusty breath. “It worked on _me_ , I couldn’t pass. Peter said it’s supposed to protect against witches, and then said it wasn’t possible for me to be one.” She wasn’t blinking back tears, but he could tell she was distressed but this revelation. “What...what am I?”

“You.” He leaned in again and kissed her. “Are my wife, Lydia Anne Parrish. You are a mathematician and scientist. You’re clever and kind, and generally the smartest person I’ve ever met.” He sat next to her on the couch and pulled her onto his lap. “In my mind anything beyond that doesn’t really matter.”

She sighed against his throat, and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you. I still think it will bother me for a while.”

“I can live with that my love.” He kissed the top of her head and wrapped his own arms around her waist. He was about to continue when an outcry came from downstairs.

The two of them exchanged glances, then without saying a word they both got up and made their way down. “What’s going on?” He asked Isaac, who was loitering at the bottom of the stairs.

“Jackson’s body is missing,” he replied. Deaton appeared in the doorway to the dining room and gestured at them, although it may have only be at Isaac.

Jordan and Lydia exchanged glances—of course Aristides’ body was gone, did they think Peter was just going to leave him?—but followed after the other man.

Everyone else was assembled here, except for Allison, in various seats around the table. Without thought he pulled a seat out for Lydia, then took the one on her right. Deaton nodded at the both of them. “I am glad to see you are still whole and well Mrs. Parrish. That is at least one bright star in this gloomy night.” Under the table Jordan reached over and took her hand.

“Your search did not go well?”

“No,” Stiles replied tightly, his eyes fixed in a glare at the watercolor hanging over the sideboard. “I thought for certain we would, but he slipped through.”

“I see.” She slumped against the back of her chair and squeezed Jordan’s hand. “I think Jordan and I will return to our flat,” Lydia’s voice sounded slightly angry and yet resigned. He was close enough to her to know that she didn’t make the suggestion out of some sort of displeasure.

Everyone else looked at her taken aback. “What? Why?” Scott sounded hurt, and Jordan had to wonder how he’d resisted turning for so long.

Lydia leaned into his shoulder, as if seeking to borrow some of his strength. “I know you want to keep us safe, but it seems that Dimitriou can find us here just as easily as anywhere else. It is no reflection upon your hospitality Scott but I wish to sleep in my own bed.” She paused for a considering moment. “Perhaps doctor you could give us some of your mountain ash? So that we can protect ourselves?”

Jordan knew now that the black dust did no such thing. Not asking after it might have raised suspicions.

“Ah, yes.” Deaton replied almost absently as he opened a book and paged through it. “Stiles or Scott can get you some before you leave.” The older man’s fingers tapped against a yellowed page. “We’ve most likely run him out of London, we can hope.”

“That still leaves the whole rest of the country.” Isaac chimed in. “While it ain’t no California, England’s no small place when it’s only one person.”

Stiles finally stopped his glaring and joined in the conversation. “Considering he came to London, I dare say we can assume he’s not the sort to rusticate and we can rule out the countryside.”

“Or he could go to the country to throw us off,” Scott argued.

“He owns a house in Dover.” Jordan felt like a right scrub saying it, but he feared that if he didn’t offer them something they might look too closely at Lydia and himself.  _T_ _hat_ would end only in a disaster that he wished to avoid. Yet he was also betraying Peter. This was beyond the pale for him, he should be _protecting_ Peter—and Lydia—and damn the rest. Yet he risked Lydia if he doesn’t give them some fresh taste of Peter, and he risked Peter if he and Lydia were caught.

Deaton and Stiles both brightened considerably at the news. “Ah, good.” Deaton smiled. “A bit of luck is still with us then. We shall catch him yet.”

Jordan smiled along with them, although his was far more forced. Not even Lydia’s hand giving his a comforting squeeze could fight off the congealing dread and fear in his belly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, Mountain Ash is actually only supposed to protect against witches, not werewolves or anything else.


	19. Interlude IX

Aristides smelled the sea, and coal, and wood polish, and a million other things that came from being aboard a big steamer ship. Well, trapped in a bed was more like it.

That damn old Argent had poisoned _him_! Peter had made it very clear that it was only by luck that Aristides had survived at all. It galled, is what it did. He was a _werewolf_ , a creature who instilled fear into the hearts and minds of the people around him, and he’d been brought low by a _plant!_

Ancient dust and blood reached his nose and Jackson’s whole being focused on Peter, who came and sat on the edge of his bed. “Oh my Aristides.” His hand came out and brushed back some of Aristides’ hair.

He basked under the touch, having missed the attention since his Alpha had found humans to chase. “Your passage is booked all the way to Boston, which should give you plenty of time to recover I dare say.” Aristides drank in his Alpha’s words. “I took the liberty of hiring you a valet, please don’t kill him. He came highly recommended and it’s a poor reward for good service.”

Being too weak to verbally respond Aristides barely managed a nod.

“Good. His name is Daniel, he does not know what you are, and I believe for now it is best that he remain ignorant. Perhaps after we have joined you, if he has proven himself worthy. My brother Derek will meet you at Ellis Island and help you with emigration.”

Peter leaned in and kissed Aristides softly on the forehead. “Now sleep, and recover. Soon we shall be a true pack, in a land that knows not to fear us, and we will _thrive_.” His eyes glowed dimly red and Aristides could feel an answering call in him as he closed his eyes.

 _Yes_ , a pack, running free in the still untamed wilds of America.


	20. Chapter 10

When Jordan and Lydia finally returned to their flat, it wasn’t to find Peter as they expected, but there was an envelope pointedly placed in the middle of the bed.

“Well?” Jordan found himself strangely anxious as Lydia opened it, the need to know Peter was safe nearly overwhelming everything. “What does it say?”

Lydia’s lips pursed. “Sush, he wrote it in Ancient Greek and I need to focus to translate it.”

He pressed his own lips together, the pressure helping him focus a little more. Bad enough he couldn’t deceive everyone else about Peter’s second purchase in Dover, now he had to fret while his wife’s brilliant brain worked.

“He’s alright.” Jordan’s legs practically gave out, and he collapsed onto Lydia’s vanity bench. “He says we should tell them of the house in Dover to throw them off the scent, even if for a few days. While you and I make our excuses and head up north to meet him.” A smile twitched at her lips. “He wants you to forgive him because he went to another solicitor to purchase a flat in York.”

Shaky laughter escaped Jordan. “He is forgiven,” it came out more tremulous than he would have liked, though he felt glad then that Peter had made alternative arrangements just in case. However there was some hurt as well, that Peter had not trusted them with this.

“He.” Lydia’s breath hitched and she sat on the bed. “He says that he hopes in York we will make good on the rest of our agreement.”

As if by some sort of magic those words brought forth a roar of arousal in Jordan. He stood, and strode over to Lydia with purpose. Not even bothering to take the letter from her hands he leaned down and kissed her, almost savagely.

Her mouth opened to his, a soft moan passing between them.

Leaning down he soon had her pressed against the bed. “Soon,” he growled as he broke the kiss, his lips dragging down her chin and throat. “Soon, we will have each other. First.” He nipped at the fabric of her dress, wishing it gone so he could see her in her full glory. “Let’s make a good reason for us to not go.”

Beneath him he could feel Lydia trembling with her own arousal, her breathing picking up even more. “Wh...what?”

“Forget that sponge of yours.” True to their own small agreement they had used it every time they had copulated, except for the last, and every time it did its job. “I want to spill my seed into you, to give you a child.” His voice was low, a bare rumble in the back of his throat. “I want Peter and I to watch in awe as you swell and change, see proof of the life within you.” Perhaps she already was.

She gasped, her body arching into him. “Jo...Jordan. Peter said the same thing earlier.”

Fire roared through him at her words, the realization that he was not the only one who wanted it. He bit back a snarl, not wanting to frighten her overmuch—not that Lydia frightened that easily. “Please Lydia.” His hands began to undo her dress with practiced ease. “Let me do that to you, let the three of us begin our family, our _pack_ , now.”

“If, if we do this, I wouldn’t know for weeks, at least. We’d, we’d be lying to everyone about why we cannot go.” Lydia twisted and writhed, her own hands beginning to undress him, making it clear that even if they didn’t agree to go bare there would still be sex tonight.

“I don’t care,” he snarled before his mouth settled over one of her pale pink nipples, sucking and wondering what it might be like to taste the milk she would make. Lydia arched against him, a faint whine leaving her. “If it is not true when we tell them. Then we will _make_ it true in York.” He did the same with her other nipple, shedding the rest of her dress and petticoats as he went.

When he reached her belly he stopped, pressing his lips softly to the skin there. “Lydia?” No matter how much he might want it if she didn’t agree then he wouldn’t do it; it may have been his right as her husband to do what he pleased with her, but he respected her too much to ignore her wishes.

Again her body trembled beneath him, if less violently than before. “Y, yes.” She finally whispered. “Give me your child Jordan, impregnate me.”

For a moment Jordan could swear he saw red, and when his vision cleared again he was already in Lydia, thrusting with more force than he usually did. The fabric of her chemise bunched up around her waist, his own smalls pulled down just enough.

Not that Lydia seemed to much mind any of it, her head was arched back, he could feel her nails scrabbling at his bare back—and his body healing the scratches?—and from her mouth came some of his favorite sounds as he drove her to her release. Some distant part of him was worried that he might hurt Lydia being so rough with her, but the rest didn’t much care; this was right, and if she didn’t like it he knew full well she would protest.

Her walls seemed to cling to him tighter than usual, as if her cunny knew what they had planned and wanted to make everything that much more pleasurable for the both of them. It was the best sort of torture to pull nearly full out of her, relish her sounds of displeasure as he did so, only to fill her all over again, loving the delicious gasp that left her each time.  

He could feel his own release begin and he gritted his teeth, attempting to hold back, to make them release together. She squeezed him like a vise and he could see her eyes roll back into her head, mouth open in a silent scream as she orgasmed. With one final thrust he was coming as well, his forehead pressing against the bed as a groan left him.

In the aftermath they lay together, the both of them breathing heavily. He not wanting this moment to end—except he knew that even better moments were ahead.

“I’ve always wanted to go to York,” Lydia murmured in his ear, her skin losing its flush as the passion began to dissipate. “I’ve been told the chocolate there is divine.”

A smile crossed his face and reaching out he smoothed back some of her stray hairs. “I don’t know about what Peter might do, but I’ll buy you pounds of chocolate.”

Lydia’s laughter rang throughout the room and made his smile wider. As it died a thoughtful light glinted in her eyes. “I know something else we can do, all three of us, in York.”

“What is that?” After all there were many things they could potentially do, without arousing any sort of suspicion from normal people.

“Get our photograph taken.” Her fingers ran up and down his forearm, tracing the veins and arteries there. “I’ve heard told that there are photographers there that can even do true _color_ photographs and not just tinting afterwards.”

He found himself torn between saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’. “We’d, have to be careful with such a thing in our possession.” All of their friends were arrayed against Peter after all, and if Jordan and Lydia were found out he wouldn’t be as protected and safe as he was.

She gave a soft sigh, her breath ghosting across his shoulder. “I know, but it would not be impossible.”

“We’d have to ask Peter,” he said finally, not being able to think of any sort of real argument against her idea. “I would like that too.” So far, no matter how much Jordan has enjoyed it, their relationship has been furtive and behind closed doors. A photograph would be a stepping out of sorts, an unknown throwing of the gauntlet. Real physical proof that the three of them were in accord, moreso than anything else so far.

-

It was all well and good to hear everyone around her planning, even better to know said plans would be for naught. She and Jordan had yet to make their ‘announcement’ and so all of the plans Deaton and Stiles were making, with much advice from a sickly looking Allison—this morning before they’d arrived at Scott’s house Lydia had gone and bought mourning gowns for her best friend, who had giving a tremulous smile of thanks upon receiving them—included Jordan.

Part of Lydia felt guilty that she was enjoying greater happiness than she ever thought she would while her friend suffered the loss of her family; and lay the blame at Peter’s feet. Which Lydia did not think was wholly fair. Allison knew Jackson as well as Lydia, she should remember how stubborn and foolish he could be, how, once he’d set his mind to something, he rarely listened to nay-sayers.

That was neither here nor there in the grand scheme, Lydia knew nothing she could say would convince anyone here of Peter’s innocence, or of his intentions; so it was best to go on as they were and hope for the best.

Finally though she could not ‘bear’ to keep it in much longer. “Jordan and I will not be going with you to Dover.”

Shocked silence filled the small study. All eyes turning to her and Jordan.

“Why not?” Hurt seeped out of every syllable that Stiles spoke. Not that Lydia felt much sympathy for him.

Despite not really wanting to be Lydia had always been an excellent liar, probably from keeping the secret of her intelligence hidden from the greater world. “Because, we discovered recently that I am expecting.”

Like that the whole atmosphere of the room changed. Everyone crowding around her and Jordan offering congratulations and felicitations. As the noise, after all she didn’t think she was pregnant, died down she continued. “Jordan though that it would be best if the two of us retreated farther afield, where Dimitriou might not find us.” The fattest of lies considering they’d be running straight into his arms.

“Yes.” Deaton nodded. “That is well thought. No child should be an orphan, or never born.” He gave a deft nod and turned to Stiles; while Lydia fought back a sneer, if Jordan died the child wouldn’t be an orphan, _she_ could raise the babe well enough on her own, and tell it of how great it’s father had been. “The plan should still work without Mr. Parrish there, it would just mean more work for Mr. McCall.”

“No,” Allison interjected. “I shall take up his role.” Despite her pale countenance, made even more so by her mourning dress, her face and eyes were steely and firm. No one would dissuade her from this, not that Lydia wanted to. Her friend deserved a distraction, even a pointless one. If they happened to cross paths with Jackson—she had a feeling he was still alive—then Lydia would not weep if he were to truly die. After what he’d done to the Argents he deserved it.

Batting aside the dark thought she tried to focus again on keeping notes, she was hailed in England and abroad as one of the foremost mathematician of her time—if under a man’s name—and here she was playing _secretary_. Only to give up a minute or so later, letting her fountain pen fall onto the table. “I’m sorry, but I cannot focus,” she interrupted Scott attempting to convince Allison not to join him and the others. “Someone else will have to take over the notes.” Even if it meant she didn’t know everything.

As she stood, everyone else did as well, Jordan easily taking her elbow. “We should both go. We have packing to do before we catch our train.”

Goodbyes were said and they left Scott’s house. After the carriage they’d stepped into began taking them home she slumped into Jordan. “I may sleep the whole train ride up.” She might not be pregnant but part of her certainly felt as if she were, if the complaints she’d heard many other women make of the state held true.

One of Jordan’s arms wrapped around her shoulders, his fingers sliding into her hair to massage her scalp. “I wouldn’t stop you if you did, I can do work or read if I wish to entertain myself. Although once we leave London I might just watch the countryside pass by, I’m told some of it is quite lovely.”

“Mmm.” She leaned into the touch. “I’m certain the moors will be suitably bleak.”

He laughed, and they fell into contented silence. Which continued as they arrived back at their flat, easily falling into the motions of packing, since neither of them knew how long they might have in York, they packed light, with the idea that they could easily buy more in the city if need be. Yet Lydia’s luggage turned out far greater than Jordan’s; then again he had to wear so fewer layers than she did. For a brief moment she entertained the thought of dressing like a man, and how freeing that might be. Instead she changed out of her dress for a darker traveling one, to better hide the soot smudges.

“Lydia?” Jordan’s voice made her heart race briefly before it calmed.

“Sorry.” She smiled. “My thoughts were elsewhere. Shall we go?”

He offered her his arm, but she just arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you need to drag our luggage into the hall,” she teased lightly. It earned her a huff in response.

“Yes dearest wife,” his tone had no bite to it however.

While he did that she called a company to come and pick them up and take them to the station, following Jordan out of the flat as he hauled out the last of the luggage. When he turned to look at her he barely looked as if he’d exerted himself at all. After making sure the door was locked she wrapped a hand around his arm, pressing herself against it. “I dare say that was more of a sight than I expected,” she purred; intrigued by this unknown strength.

He blinked, clearly taken aback by her forwardness—well forwardness in public—“Thank, thank you.” A blush stained his ears. “It certainly didn’t feel like much.”

As they descended in the elevator—an invention that always managed to amaze Lydia no matter how many times she rode in it—she gave his arm a squeeze. “I dare say if you keep it up you could try and be one of those circus strongmen. Showing off by bending iron bars in half.” A smile danced across her lips at the thought.

“Oh Lydia,” Jordan chuckled, and bent down to kiss her cheek. “I love you.”

She echoed his action, feeling a faint patch of stubble against her lips as they brushed his cheek. “And I love you Jordan, always and forever,” she said as the elevator came to a stop. She could almost feel the rightness of that in her bones—a saying she’d always found purely fanciful before werewolves had come into their lives.

Jordan easily hailed a hansom as they entered the street and she cuddled up against his side as the cab began making it’s way to the station. “Now let us go and tell, and show, our lover how much we adore him,” she murmured in Jordan’s ear. Salacious thoughts of her own filled her mind and she found herself enjoying them without any sort of guilt.

-

It was their second day in York, and the three of them were lounging about in Peter’s drawing room, enjoying tea and each other’s company, even if there was no true flow of conversation. Which hardly bothered Jordan as he drank his tea and paged through the morning _Times_.

In the couch across from him Lydia read an astronomy book she had bought the day before. Peter nearly pressed against her as he read over her shoulder; every once in a while Lydia would softly explain one thing or another to Peter, answering his questions as best she could. To think that Peter had slept through the discovery of two planets, asteroids, and even a new non-terrestrial element. Jordan wondered how those like Peter kept up with all of the changes, seemingly growing more rapid by the day now.

Currently they were discussing the discovery of canals on Mars. Something that Peter seemed disbelieving of in general, yet not ignoring Lydia’s points in the slightest.

The sounds of their low talking cut off abruptly and Jordan flipped a corner of the paper to see the two of them kissing, quite passionately. His cock stirred as he watched, but he felt no real urge to interrupt or join them. Content to enjoy his growing passion as Peter began to all but press Lydia against the seat of the couch, a lovely melange of sounds coming from the both of them as her book slipped through her fingers.

When they broke apart Lydia was flush and Peter looked as if he might just tear off her clothing and have his way with her right then and there. An idea Jordan found he rather liked, in both specific and general.

“Peter,” Lydia sighed, her arms wrapping around his torso. “You are a most horrible man, making me wait like this.”

The rumbling growl that left Peter at Lydia’s words made Jordan’s cock stand at attention, and Jordan decided he might as well give up the ghost on trying to read the paper; his wife and lover being far too great a distraction. “Far be it from me to keep you waiting sweetheart.” He stood, hauling Lydia with him.

In seemingly no time at all Lydia’s dress and bustle were on the floor, leaving her far less dressed than either of them. Which made Jordan even more interested. He didn’t bother to hold back his smile as Peter scooped Lydia up, causing her to squeal. “Let us adjourn to our chambers and become better acquainted shall we?” He did not even wait for Lydia’s reply—although Jordan knew full well what it was, considering it echoed his own—before striding out of the room. Stopping at the door to turn his head back and looking at Jordan. “I do hope you’re coming too dearest.”

Without another word they left, leaving Jordan to hurry after them, shedding his own shirt and trousers in the process.

Compared even to the hotel Peter had been staying at the bedroom in the flat here was opulent, dominated by a massive four poster bed that felt as if it had come straight from the middle ages, all dark woods and heavy velvet curtains.

As Jordan entered Peter lay Lydia on the bed, her petticoats and chemise having been discarded on the floor. The blankets covering the bed were nearly as dark as the wood and Lydia stood out in her pale skin and fiery hair, seeming to glow. It was hard for Jordan to miss the way Peter’s eyes seemed to devour her. Not that Jordan blamed him.

He came up to the bed, but didn’t climb onto it, as he watched Peter lean down and kiss her. When he pulled away there was a decadent smile on his face. “Let us see what new wicked things we can teach your husband sweetheart.” Again he didn’t wait for a reply before moving and laying his lips against Lydia’s nipple, giving the puckered skin a lingering lick.

In a way it was amazing to see Lydia be taken apart like this, to see at a distance what she was like as her body was played. Every tiny arch and quiver felt branded on his mind as Peter made his way down to her mound as slowly as possible. Jordan’s cock was so hard he barely noticed it anymore, his nails biting into the wood of the nearest post as he watched Lydia fall apart.

“Peter,” Lydia moaned, her hips undulating as the man settled between her thighs.

Jordan watched as Peter’s elegant fingers smoothed down Lydia’s freckled thighs, “shhh, sweetheart. We can do as you wish the next time.” A shudder passed through both and Jordan and Lydia at the words.

A moaning sigh left Lydia as Peter descended upon her, while Peter made an obscene sound that Jordan felt certain was for his benefit. He resisted the urge to palm himself as he watched, imagined this same scene happening only the other night, but with Lydia’s face still covered in blood and semen—his cock twitched as he recalled the feel of Lydia’s and Peter’s mouth on it.

Peter’s hands moved, shifting in such a way as to suggest Peter slipping one or two fingers into her channel. An idea that had never occurred to Jordan, his tongue had occasionally slid in, but he didn’t see what use _fingers_ in there might be.

Not until Lydia’s whole body seemed to seize, a broken keen leaving her. “What, what are you doing to her?” She didn’t sound as if she were in pain, but he had certainly never elicited such a reaction from her.

He watched as Peter’s face pulled away to look at him, beard and lips covered in Lydia’s juices. “Come here and I’ll show you.” It wasn’t exactly a challenge, but the idea of learning how to do _that_ to Lydia eclipsed any startings of jealousy that had existed in him.

Jordan climbed onto the bed, laying on his stomach parallel to Lydia, his face hovering over her mons.

“Actually, it can’t really be shown.” Before Jordan could even feel anger Peter continued. “Give me your hand.”

Despite feeling a sudden focus on her nether regions, Jordan could still hear Lydia’s ragged breathing, and the soft moan that left her lips as Peter slid two of Jordan’s fingers into her.

It felt much like it did when Jordan inserted the sponge, if a little warmer than usual. “Curl your fingers slightly.” Peter’s hot breath caressed the shell of Jordan’s ear and made his own hips rocked against the covers as he did as Peter instructed. “Now you need to press up, there’s a section of her channel where the flesh is like, well, a sponge,” Peter gave a breathy laugh. “Apply pressure to it, or rub it and you’ll give her pleasure like nothing else.” He felt one of Peter’s hands slide down his back to cup his rear. “It’s quite like when I have my wicked way with your prostate.”

A flush raced across Jordan at the many memories those words now elicited. He still pressed his fingers up, curious to find this patch of flesh Peter had described. Amazing to think there was a part of Lydia he didn’t even know about.

He knew when he’d found it by the feel of it, and the fact that Lydia bucked, “Jordan!” Satisfaction curled in him as he watched her arch and shiver, her body so very close to orgasm. Since this was about Peter and Lydia he backed off, enjoying Lydia’s displeased whine as much as Peter’s rumble.

Happily he cleaned his fingers of her juices, then, because he could hardly resist, he leaned in and did the same for Peter, turning it into a sloppy kiss. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Peter’s fingers slip back into Lydia, most likely intent to play with that spot of hers, while he continued to kiss Jordan.

When they pulled apart Peter’s eyes were pleasure-dark. “Jordan,” Peter’s voice was low and felt like it reached right inside of Jordan. “Shall you help me bring your wife to completion?”

Heat roared through him, and he found himself kissing Peter again, enjoying the sounds of pleasure that seemed to come from everywhere. “Yes,” he murmured against Peter’s lips seconds later.

As one they both turned their heads to look at Lydia, who trembled on the bed before them, hands clenching the covers tightly. Her breathing rapid and breathy sighs and moans tumbling out one right after the other. “Please.” She writhed and Jordan realized that Peter had stopped moving his fingers. “Peter…” whatever entreaty she might have made was cut off by a gasp.

Some part of Jordan—as if he needed any more sort of proof that he was a deviant—liked watching Lydia beg for another man’s attention. Peter just grasped one of her thighs with his free hand and pushed it slightly further away, giving Jordan better access. “Let’s give her what she wants.” It came out so low that Jordan nearly missed it, he however didn’t miss he flecks of red in Peter’s blue eyes, which tugged up an unknown heat in Jordan.

Without responding to Peter he lowered his head, settling it on her clit and giving it a brief lick. The rasp of Peter’s beard chafed Jordan’s skin as he felt the other man settle his face below Jordan’s, and in silent tandem they worked, taking all their cues from Lydia, until she finally broke, orgasm turning her loose limbed and relaxed. “Ohhhh,” she sighed.

Peter pulled the both of them away from her, and gave Jordan another sloppy kiss; the taste of Lydia overwhelming everything else. The kiss ended with a swipe of Peter’s tongue and Jordan found himself smiling as the other man pulled away. “Would you mind terribly getting the sponge?” Peter’s breath ghosted across Jordan’s cheek.

“Sure.” Jordan slid off the bed and after some rummaging through Lydia’s cosmetics found the ribbon and sponge. He let it swing between his fingers as he climbed back on. “Shall you put it in or I?”

Peter’s hand came up and gently teased the ribbon from Jordan. “I would like to,” Peter replied. Jordan settled in to watch, unable to resist, however, darting in and lapping at Lydia’s nipple.

He could tell when Peter had started to slide the sponge in because Lydia shifted, a soft “yes” leaving her. Peter didn’t take his time with it, getting it where it should be before pulling his fingers out. Just as quickly stripping down to his own bare skin, revealing a cock that looked as hard as Jordan’s felt.

Settling himself over Lydia, Peter gave her a soft kiss. “Finally.” Jordan’s gaze quickly became transfixed to where their hips were nestled together, watching as Peter pulled his away and, cock in hand, began to slide into Lydia.

“Oh!” Jordan gave a start when he felt Lydia’s hand bury itself in his hair. “Oh Jordan.” He watched her hips rock, trying to encourage Peter to go faster. “He’s so _thick_.” Jordan knew exactly what she meant, his own hips began rubbing against the covers, the roughness of his smalls providing more stimulation than he thought they would. His breath coming out in pants as he recalled the feel of Peter splitting _him_ open for the first time.

He moaned against her breast, echoed soon by one from Lydia as Peter entered her completely. Jordan’s face quickly became pressed between the two of them as Peter leaned down to kiss Lydia again. “Exquisite Lydia,” it came out nearly a snarl. The sound making Lydia arch and whimper, which in turn made Jordan groan, and Peter laugh softly. “It seems I can play the both of you like this.”

Jordan wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed or amused by Peter’s words, though any thought as to either quickly became swept away in pleasure as Peter began to move in earnest. His fingers digging into Lydia’s hips as he tilted them up slightly, changing the angle. From the red growing in Peter’s eyes Jordan could tell he wasn’t holding back as much as he had before, the revelation that Lydia wasn’t human—and thus his bite would apparently do nothing to her—making him less delicate with her than he would be with Jordan. Which did bring a flash of jealousy, and the thought that maybe he should ask Peter for the bite.

Again he found himself soon distracted from anything other than watching them, as Lydia’s sounds moved towards whimpers and whines, Peter setting a rougher pace that soon had the man snarling out his own climax. Nearly slumping onto Lydia in the aftermath.

Jordan’s own cock nearly cried out in anguish when he stopped moving, but he ignored it as best he could, getting an arm between Lydia and Peter and mostly shoving Peter off his wife—Lydia enjoyed being crushed, but after a time she would get testy of you stayed on top of her.

Lydia gave a sleepy murmur, and Jordan found himself patting her cheek softly, not wanting her to fall asleep just yet. “Say with me sweet. There’s someone else who wants to satisfy himself in you.”

Beside them Peter gave a chuckle. Lydia’s eyes fluttered open and she gave a smile of sly contentedness. “Come to claim your wife at last husband mine?”

His cock pulsed and it took all his self control to get his smalls off all the way before taking Peter’s previous position and sliding into her. With her juices and Peter’s semen moving in her was almost laughably easy, and he screwed his eyes shut to keep from spending at the mere thought of that.

Despite his best efforts, however, he only managed a few thrusts before he came. A grunt leaving him as he pulled out and let himself fall on Peter, being mindful to pull the sponge from Lydia before letting himself even contemplate sleep.

Yet just as he was getting comfortable Peter moved, his eyes opening just barely he saw as Peter settled his mouth on Lydia’s cunny again, giving a slow, languorous lick that hardly seemed to stir Lydia. “What’re you, doing?” It came out sleepy and content.

“Enjoying the way we taste,” Peter responded before returning his attention to Lydia. Who despite her own sleepy state rocked her hips as Peter continued his ministrations.

The words made Jordan groan, and soon enough he found himself unable to resist, hauling Peter away from Lydia—far too sleepy to realize that it was easier than it should have been—and kissed him. Not sure if the tastes in Peter’s mouth really were their combined fluids, but enjoying it all the same.

“Now leave her alone,” he muttered.

Peter chuckled again, but settled himself on top of Jordan, face buried in the crook of his neck. With warm breath tickling his throat, and his wife cuddling up to his side, Jordan fell into sleep.

-

Lydia sat at her vanity in her underclothes and prepared herself for the day, they had plans to go to a photographer and she wanted to look her best. She could hear Jordan wandering around the flat, probably making toast at least for all of them. Peter sat propped against the headboard, intently watching her.

In a way it was no different from the first time Jordan had watched her regimen, but it did still make her feel, well watched. She did her best to ignore it as she applied lemon juice to what few freckles she had gained on her face.

“Whatever are you doing?” Her lips twitched at Peter’s question, she doubted he was truly interested in the wherefores and whys of modern beauty but she’d indulge him all the same.

The small brush she used to apply the juice tickled her skin as she dabbed another pale spot. “Taking off my freckles, they’re unbecoming.” If Lydia weren’t so lazy she’d be more proactive of removing _all_ of them, and not just the ones that appeared in places society would see. With one last swipe of her brush she got the last one.

While she let the juice do it’s work she began working on her hair. With an assortment of pins arrayed before her she worked it into a simple chignon, with a few becoming curls framing her cheeks.

That done she picked up the warm towel waiting for her and patted her face with it, the steam making her skin feel refreshed. When she set the towel aside she saw that Peter was now standing behind her leaning down to nuzzle her neck. “I’m always amazed at what women do to themselves.” She couldn’t quite tell if it was a compliment or a critique, so she took it as neither.

“I’m lucky,” she responded. “Red hair may be undesirable, but no one can complain about the wondrously fair skin that comes with it.” Her regimen was simple compared to Allison’s, even if her best friend had never had a freckle in her life. Yet she wasn’t sure how equal a trade off that was, considering the teasing Lydia had endured as a child.

Peter lay a kiss on the nape of her neck, then pulled away as she began powdering. “A foolish idea, one hair color being less desirably.” He reached out and coiled one of her curls around his fingers, his tanned skin—strange the fact of him being foreign made that attractive instead of low class—making her hair stand out even more.

“Achilles had red hair.” He released the curl. “As do Zeus and Hephaestus.”

Lydia frowned faintly, putting her poof down. “Achilles’ hair was blond.” It did feel a bit silly to argue with a man who may have actually witnessed the fall of Troy, but she knew what her books said.

He arched an amused eyebrow, and leaned down again. This time to look her right in the eye, arresting blue not letting her look away. “I dare say I’m old, but I don’t think my memory’s failing me quite yet. My brothers and I agreed to not partake in the war itself.” His lips twitched. “We’d grown wary of involving ourselves with the gods, even if we still worshiped them. But I distinctly recall meeting Achilles. His hair may have been lighter than yours, but red it was.”

“Oh.” It was so easy to forget that Peter was old, ancient even. Would perhaps outlive Jordan and herself; or perhaps just Jordan, her heart seized at the thought and she could feel the wooden handle of her poof biting into her hand.

“Lydia?” Concern filled Peter’s voice, his warm hand cupping her cheek, his eyes gone from intense to worried. “What’s wrong?”

Blinking back tears she inhaled slowly to keep from sniffling. “I don’t want to outlive Jordan Peter. I love him too much.”

His hand left her cheek and soon he was embracing her, warm fingers rubbing soothing circles against her back.

“It doesn’t feel right that I should stay young as he ages and dies.” She clung to him, needing the comfort of his arms.

“Oh Lydia.” Peter’s lips pressed a kiss to her hair. “It won’t come to that, I swear. I’ll turn him before Death even thinks his name.” He pulled away slightly, his eyes meeting hers again. “I know he’ll say yes to it, and you and I can get him through his hungry years as easy as anything.”

A watery smile graced her mouth. “Thank you.”

He smiled back and leaning further in gave her a soft kiss. “Finish getting ready dearest, I’ll help Jordan fix breakfast. Then we shall get our photograph taken, together.” Peter’s voice still held traces of amazement in it; when she and Jordan had first proposed the idea they’d had to explain _what_ photography was, the whole of it fascinating Peter. He seemed as eager as the two of them to have this done now.

“Alright,” she answered, rising up to give him a peck on the cheek, then in a bout of levity she batted at his face with her poof, leaving a splotch of pale powder.

Mirth gleamed in Peter’s eyes. “Now, now Lydia. That wasn’t nice at all.” This time when he leaned in she felt his teeth press against her jawbone. “Keep that up and I may have to punish you later.”

Lydia found herself replying without thought. “That is a husband’s duty.” She gave a haughty sniff. “And you are not my husband.”

There was still mirth in Peter’s eyes, but it wasn’t easy to miss the way his pupils dilated and his fangs now pressed lightly into her skin. “Oh, I’m reminded of that every day,” the dark pleasure in his voice made her shudder. “That doesn’t mean I can’t throw you over the arm of a couch and fuck you like a dockside lightskirt.”

Her heart pounded in her ears as she thought about what that might be like. She quickly bit her lip to keep from moaning.

Peter’s bite turned into another soft kiss. “Think about it dear.” He pulled away completely and she watched in the mirror as he left the room.

Almost of their own volition her hands resumed their work, while she desperately tried not to get any more aroused by the thought of being taken so...brutally.

-

Jordan wondered if anything in his future could eclipse the happiness he and Lydia shared with Peter in York. Perhaps the birth of his children, but nothing else he could think of.

It felt almost like a sort of paradise, too perfect to be real. Yet it was, wholly and completely.

He quickly became distracted as Lydia’s bare form settled against his side, her legs tangling with his. Each time they made love felt better than the last, and he found himself amazed again that she’d become his wife.

Peter sat at Lydia’s vanity and Jordan could feel the other man’s gaze on him like a caress, tracing across his shoulders and back. Jordan found himself luxuriating in the unfelt touch, taking pride in the way Peter stared. Why shouldn’t he?

“Mmmm.” Lydia stretched, her body somehow coming into even close contact with his. “I love you.”

He bent his head down and kissed her hair, “I love you too.”

Lydia’s arm came over his waist and he heard her pat the space behind him. “Get in here Peter.”

Jordan heard as Peter shed his clothing and settled against Jordan’s back, the fabric of his smalls tickling Jordan slightly. “You both are beyond what I could ever have hoped for.” Peter’s lips pressed themselves to the nape of Jordan’s neck and Jordan found himself blushing at the words, touched.

“You’ve brought more love into our lives than we knew we needed,” Lydia replied, her chin settling on Jordan’s arm, so that she could look at Peter.

“I would say something, but I’m certainly not as articulate as either of you,” Jordan admitted, still blushing. The warmth that filled him comforted him, made him feel more content than he ever thought he might be. Leaning back some he settled more of his weight against Peter, gently pulling Lydia along with him.

Peter’s arm wrapped around the both of them, a weight Jordan knew he could escape if he wanted to, but didn’t.

The silence they found themselves in only brought the thoughts that had been plaguing Jordan for the past few days back to the front of his mind. For the most part he managed to ignore them, but in moments like this they seemed inescapable.

He felt Peter’s nose settle behind his ear and seconds later the other man spoke. “What’s bothering you at a time like this dearest?”

“You can tell that just from my scent?” A year ago that would have bothered him, that someone could tell such intimate details of another just by smelling them, now, he’s not sure how he feels. Except that he knows it’s not ‘bothered’.

Laughter rustled his hair as Peter laid another kiss on his neck. “Indeed I can.”

As if reminding him that she was there Lydia’s finger jabbed his chest lightly. “You are avoiding the question Jordan.”

Now he was the one laughing, although his was softer than Peter’s. “You know me too well.”

“I’m your wife.” Lydia gave a haughty sniff. “Of course I know you too well.”

He smiled, her words helping to disentangle him. “I’ve just been thinking, that with Peter being a werewolf and you.” He tangled his fingers in Lydia’s hair. “Being well, something. I feel almost left out.”

“Nonsense,” Peter said sharply. “Just because you’re human doesn’t make you lesser than either of us. I dare say your humanity makes you more unique than your wife or I.”

He knew Peter meant well, but it didn’t halt the parade of thoughts. He squeezed Peter’s forearm and gave the best smile he could. “Thank you. I still feel…” Gently he dislodged Lydia and turned himself at the waist so he could look Peter in the eye. “I’ve been thinking of asking you to bite me.” In a way it was finally a relief to get the words out, to be able to find out what someone else thought of the idea.

Either side of him grew quiet, it wasn’t something they’ve brought up in conversation since Peter had told them that most werewolves didn’t bite the unwilling. It was Peter who broke the silence first. “Are you asking me? Or saying you’ve been thinking of asking?”

“I’ve been thinking of asking for a while now,” Jordan answered, staring right into Peter’s blue eyes. “But yes, I am asking if you’ll bite me.”

“Jordan,” Lydia hissed angrily her finger again jabbing his side. “Why didn’t you tell me you were thinking about this?” She has a right to be angry of course.

As he turned back around to face her he did feel his ears heat, because he has no good reason for leaving his wife out of a possible decision like this. “I’m sorry,” he tried to be as sincere as possible. “I just got caught up in my thoughts and didn’t think.” Stupid of him, if Peter did bite him it would change both his _and_ her life, he had no right to try and make that choice on his own.

“Yes you did,” she responded, clearly not quite forgiving him. She leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He understood why she wasn’t forgiving him, yet also felt grateful that she wasn’t going to talk him out of it; he gave her a smile as she pulled away. “Thank you.” He turned back to Peter who still looked grave, but the look in his eyes had softened some.

“Is this really what you want Jordan?” It didn’t sound like Peter was trying to get him to second guess himself, more that he was checking that there were no doubts in the first place.

Which Jordan could appreciate, after all if he did this then there wouldn’t be any going back. He would never be human again. He made himself think about it, decide if he really was ready or not to take this leap. “Yes,” he finally answered. Finding he was as sure about this has he had been when he proposed to Lydia.

Peter nodded and pulled away slightly, Jordan unable to tear his gaze away as Peter’s face changed slightly to accommodate the partial shift. Jordan found that he wasn’t afraid of Peter as the other man moved back in, but he was for some reason entranced. In more ways than one if his cock was anything to go by.

Lydia’s teasing laughter sounded right in his ear as Peter spoke. “The other day Lydia was telling me about what you can tell someone only using flowers.” A clawed finger traced its way up the vein in Jordan’s arm and he shivered at the sensation. “To werewolves where you bite someone functions in the same way.”

Peter’s nose followed the same path as his claws. “The torso is common, the sort of bite that’s perfunctory at best. A thigh is more intimate, but dangerous; more likely to go wrong.” Before Jordan can even think to ask what was likely to ‘go wrong’ with a werewolf bite Peter continued. “It’s the forearm that’s the most telling.” He shivered again as Peter nuzzled the soft skin there. “The hardest to hide, in a way you’re announcing what you are to anyone with eyes at least until the bite fade. Some of my brothers have taken to calling it the mate mark,” Peter huffed. “A ridiculous notion.”

“So Jordan.” Peter’s toothy smile brought something forth in Jordan, something wild. “Where should I bite you?”

“Forearm,” he replied without hesitation. No one in York would think too much on it, he could wear the bite proudly until the healing took care of it. His eyes may have been focused on Peter, but it was hard to miss the way Lydia’s breath ghosted across his neck and how she arched against him, her wet sex rubbing against his thigh.

Peter’s smile turned warm before he nuzzled Jordan’s forearm again. Jordan couldn’t look away as Peter opened his mouth and sunk his teeth into Jordan’s arm. It hurt, _of course_ it hurt, but he found he could bear the pain frightfully well.

Then it was done, and it felt as if all three of them were staring at the slightly bleeding bite in his arm.

Certainly they were all watching when it began to heal on its own.

Jordan found his gaze shooting up to Peter, expecting the other man to have an explanation of some sort. He’d thought he’d have the mark for hours, not _seconds_ —if that—yet Peter looked as confused as Jordan was.

“Jordan isn’t human either is he?” God, or should it be Gods, bless Lydia. She hardly sounded calm, but she was clearly more together than either him or Peter.

Peter studied Jordan as if he’d just been handed a new puzzle. “I think so.”

In his mind Jordan found himself flooded with questions, but while some of them were interesting—was he the same as Lydia? Something completely different?—he found himself unconcerned about them. For the moment at least.

Instead he found himself lunging at Peter, teeth bared.

Peter caught him easily and the two of them rolled across and off the bed, Peter landed on top and playfully, Jordan was relieved to note, snapped his teeth. Jordan snapped right back and rolled them again so he was on top. He dug his fingers into the meat of Peter’s arms, onto to realize he had _claws_ instead of fingernails.

Taking advantage of Jordan’s shock Peter flipped them again and snarled, eyes flashing red. Jordan shocked himself again when he snarled right back; not so surprising was the fact he was getting hard again.

“Challenge me all you like boy but I’m going to win.” Jordan could feel Peter’s own claws jab into his skin at his arm and hip and a second later Peter’s teeth were at his throat. When he gave a rumble of warning it seemed to echo right in Jordan’s bones and Jordan found himself giving a soft whine as he tilted his head to the side.

A moan from the bed had him trying to crane his head to see while also keeping his neck bared. He managed, and saw Lydia peering down at them, her eyes half-shuttered with pleasure.

Peter withdrew and Jordan found his own eyes closing as he felt the other man lick the wound he’d made. “Good. I may not know what you are Jordan. But _I’m_ the Alpha.” Once again Jordan couldn’t tear his eyes away from Peter as the other man began making his way down Jordan’s body. “ _I_ am the one in control.” He reached Jordan’s hip and bit there as well, making Jordan whine again, body arching as he sought relief; silently begging his Alpha to take care of him—he found he was and wasn’t frightened by that idea.

Peter gave another rumble, this one sounding more pleased to Jordan’s ears than the last one, then again released Jordan. “Don’t fear Jordan.” He could feel Peter’s breath on his cock and he felt agonizing pleasure. “I _always_ take the best of care with my own.”

That mouth quickly began devouring Jordan’s cock and Jordan was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, color photography existed back in the late 1800s, it was more laborious and time/material consuming (and thus more expensive), but you could have it done.
> 
> And yeah, a lot of people back then thought Mars could be populated by aliens, the makers of the 'canals' (which were probably just markings on the lenses of the telescopes considering they were different every time astronomers looked for/at them). The planets by the way are Uranus and Neptune (1781 and 1846 respectively); Ceres was discovered in 1801 and soon became the first 'asteroid' (we now consider it a dwarf planet); and Helium was discovered in the sun in 1868 (but not on Earth until about 30 years later).
> 
> The word usually used to describe Achilles' hair can be interpreted as 'blond' or what we call 'strawberry blond'.


	21. Interlude X

_Dearest Scott,_

_I feel I must thank you for Recommending this trip to me, for it has been a much needed reprieve from work at the hospital. Despite it being August there is a chill in the air here in York. It would not surprise me if Autumn came early this year._

_I have been entertaining myself mostly by walking, York has much history to be explored and it is certainly more friendly to a woman walking alone than London usually is. The Minster is, as to be expected, a reason to go to York in and of itself, the Windows there are truly awe inspiring and magnificent._

_Ah! Before I forget, while I was walking through the Shambles, a very Historic street with many attractive shops one can explore, the other day I believe I saw Lydia (did you not say she was coming here?). She is looking quite well for herself, if I do say so, and looked quite Handsome with her husband (although I do not quite remember him being so broad in the shoulder, or with such dark hair). They seemed wrapped up in their own world and I felt loathed to tear them from it. The nature of cities such as these means I shall probably meet them again, on better terms at the very least._

_Your loving Mother,_

_Melissa_


	22. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well her we are folks, the final chapter... (at least by name)

Lydia sat in Jordan’s lap as he lay prone on the bed, the both of them naked, her back to his front and his cock already firmly inside her. Sitting there, desperately wanting to move but unable to she watched as Peter came towards her.

The hungry look in his eyes made her heart pound and her whole body feel hyper aware. Ever since they had discovered Jordan wasn’t human Peter had become more...animalistic in _all_ of his bedplay. Just the thought of which made Lydia shiver in anticipation.

Finally Peter reached her, even kneeling he had to duck down to kiss her, his blunt human teeth digging sharply into her bottom lip, making her arch; pleasure coursing through both her and Jordan.

When they broke apart Peter stayed close. “Lean back,” he murmured softly, one of his arms wrapping around her waist to help her control her angle.

Trusting Peter she did so, marveling at how the change of angle of Jordan inside influenced her pleasure; soon enough she could feel his shaft against that spot that turned her pleasure into a sort of madness. Peter’s arm kept her from leaning back further.

“Now watch, and don’t move.” The commands had her looking down, body trembling in a desire to move as she watched Peter take his own cock in hand and guide the head of it towards her entrance.

It wouldn’t fit, it _couldn’t_ fit. A strange wailing-moan escaped her as she felt him begin to press in, insistent and unrelenting.

Soon enough she wasn’t the only one making noises as the tip of him began to slide in. Her hands flew out, needing to do _something_ , one landed on Jordan’s thigh the other on Peter’s shoulder; either way her nails bit deep.

The crown of him slid in and she cried out, already orgasming. Peter stopped moving and beneath her she could feel Jordan’s hips holding themselves back, a strained grunt leaving her husband.

As her orgasm began to subside Peter began sliding in more, the sensations it elicited more than she ever thought possible for someone to feel. It baffled her how her tiny body could contain it all, and yet it did; as well as the rest of the pleasure filling her.

He sunk in deeper and her eyes widened as she saw her belly bulge faintly. “Oh Gods.” How could one woman contain such men?

“Lydia.” Peter’s claws bit into her back, the slight pain focusing her. “You’re doing so well sweetheart, we’re almost there.”

She bit her own lip, unsure if she was trying to keep in her sounds, or as an attempt to hold back the relentless bliss. She didn’t tear her eyes away from where Peter was sinking in her, the feeling of fullness only growing the further he slid in.

Then it was done, his hips met hers and she couldn’t help but squirm; both men grunting at the sensations. Jordan’s hips finally moved, the briefest of thrusts had her orgasming again, her earlier hyperawareness apparently focused in one place.

Beneath her had she felt Peter’s muscles shift as he prepared to move himself. “Wait,” she gasped out. “Just wait, don’t move please.” She needed to try and get a hold of herself, otherwise she might fall apart.

Jordan and Peter gave her the time she needed however, their stillness as she closed her eyes and attempted to wrest control of her own body something to be thankful for. Eventually she opened her eyes again, it felt as if her own body was walking a razor’s edge, but that was miles better than what she’d been feeling earlier. “Alright. I’m ready.”

The men didn’t immediately start to move, not in the way she expected. Under her she felt Jordan’s muscles begin to move and before she knew it his front was heating her back, pushing her forwards slightly towards Peter. “I love you,” he said against her neck, laying soft kisses and sharp, brief nips there.

Peter nuzzled her jaw. “You’ll never cease to amaze me.”

She opened her mouth to return the sentiments, but before she could even begin to form words they began to thrust, rendering her nearly mute. In fact it seemed to render them all mute, only sounds of pleasure falling from their lips as the three of them moved towards their common goal.

Peter spilled first, his face growing slightly more wolfish as he gave a snarl of pleasure. Heartbeats later Jordan followed, and moments later she found herself being turned slightly, falling onto the bed with both men, on her side.

Both slid out of her at nearly the same time, and she didn’t resist the lifting of one of her legs—although the end result left her feeling far too exposed. Two sets of lips, one from in front one from behind, met her channel and she whimpered as they brought her to completion number three.

As they finally abated their assault she found herself slipping into unconsciousness. The wet, slick sounds of her men enjoying each other following her into her dreams.

-

Just like in London York was a bustle of people, but this one lacked most of the frantic energy of the capital city. It made for a pleasurable walk with Peter. Lydia let her eyes drift over stalls and shop windows, only giving half a mind of the idea of shopping. Mostly she let herself enjoy a quiet moment with Peter—they had left a note for a still sleeping Jordan on the bedside table.

“Perhaps something’s caught your fancy?” Peter’s voice sounded as if it were right next to her ear and she found herself giving a start; not having realized they’d stopped walking.

Trying to calm her racing heart she gave a smile. “No, sorry. My thoughts got the better of me.”

His smile in return was certainly more engaged than hers. “Perhaps I should buy you something anyways; something not chocolate.” His blue eyes glittered with humor.

She did laugh however, miming giving him a playful whack with her parasol. “We’ve gotten through most of it already you glutton. It is quite divine.” Especially the drinking chocolate...they were running low, perhaps they should buy more…

This time it wasn’t her that stopped moving. “Peter?” She forced herself to remain calm, even as she looked up to see red creeping into his blue eyes.

“They’re here,” his voice was a low rumble, just barely above it she could hear the sounds of him sniffing.

“Who? Who’s here?” Calm, she _would_ remain calm. ‘They’ was too vague to panic over.

He finally tore himself away from his searching to look at her, his eyes returning to normal. “You’re friends. McCall and Stilinski are at the end of this street, heading towards us. They haven’t spotted us but they will soon.”

She refused to let herself cry over the unfairness of it all. Already part of her mind was working on a way for this to work out well enough for the both of them. “Let them spot us,” she finally spoke, proud that her voice didn’t waver. “When they raise a cry I’ll ‘struggle’ and escape, going to them. Attempt to get me back, but let them chase you off.” Rising up to her tiptoes she laid a kiss on his cheek. “Stay close enough to listen in to our conversation, I still need to think of how Jordan and I were split.” Inside her heart was breaking, but she refused to let it show—true he could probably smell it in her scent, but only Peter could tell that.

Barely a second later she found herself being swept up into a passionate kiss; she returned it with fervor, ignoring the scandalized whispers of the people around them. When they broke apart she did her best to straighten her dress; hoping that if the high color remained on her cheeks by the time they reached Scott and Stiles it would be mistaken for something other than passion.

Once more she wrapped her arm around Peter’s, and without exchanging a word they began to walk down the street. Each step a death knell to their time together in York.

At about the halfway point in the street she could see Scott and Stiles making their way towards them, neither man looked as if they were searching for anything. She let herself briefly entertain the idea of slipping into a dank alley with Peter and just letting them pass by. That would only delay the inevitable.

Then it was too late, Scott’s eyes passed over them, only to dart back. “Lydia?” Shock and horror filled his shout.

“Scott!” She did her best to appear as if she were now struggling to get away from Peter, actually going so far now as to smack him in the head with her parasol. “Help!”

Around them the crowd began to disperse, giving them room, and clinging to the sides of the street to watch.

Finally Peter let her ‘escape’, she didn’t dare let herself look back at him. His whispered “I love you” gave her the strength to run to right into into Scott and Stiles’ arms, doing her best to make herself cry and generally act miserably relieved. “Oh God, you, you found me.”

Scott passed her fully onto Stiles, who made sounds which she was certain were supposed to be soothing. She barely paid him any attention, all her focus on Scott who drew out a vial filled with a purple-blue dust—it wasn’t hard to guess what it had come from. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way Dimitriou. I don’t think you want the whole city up in arms at you.”

She couldn’t see Peter, but it still relieved her to hear his voice. “I don’t know, chaos in the street might just give me enough time to take her back. She’s _mine_.” The angry rumble made her tremble, and she felt Stiles being to move her behind him; reading her reaction as fear and trying to protect her.

Like he was a bowler in a cricket match Scott made ready to throw the vial. “Don’t try me Dimitriou.” He sounded so steady and sure that even Lydia found herself stilling, wondering where Scott had found this new confidence of his.

Peter bared his teeth. “You only delay the inevitable. I _will_ come back for you Lydia. You can never escape me.” With that he ran off, shoving the crowd aside and vanishing down an alley.

Without speaking Scott and Stiles swept her up and began hurrying her down the street, intent on some destination.

Which turned out to be a coffee house. Scott escorted her to a table while Stiles went to the counter and bought three mugs of _something_. Before sitting down he passed a mug to each of them, and Lydia gave a disdainful sniff of the acrid coffee inside; what made them think she would drink this? She wrapped her hands around the mug, enjoying the warmth that seeped into her hands however. Meanwhile she braced herself as best she could for the questions she knew they would have for her. Hopefully she could play her part well enough; and she hoped Peter was close enough to overhear their conversation.

“Lydia.” Scott rested a hand on her forearm and she gave a start. “What happened? Where’s Jordan?”

Taking a deep breath and blinking back tears—that were real enough—Lydia set out to discover just how good a liar she was. “We...Jordan and I got to York, and checked into our hotel.” She kept her gaze on the steaming mug of coffee. “It was the, the second day when he attacked. Somehow...somehow he must have followed us here instead of going to Dover. We were in one of the parks, looking at the ruins of the wall when he, he attacked us.

“Jordan, got knocked out.” Despite not wanting to she forced herself to take a sip of the coffee, it tasted as bad as it smelled. “Then he, he knocked me out too. I, when I woke up I was in an apartment, and he.” She did her best to sob, but it sounded half-hearted at best to her ears. “He was there. He smiled at me and told me I was his. I’ve, I’ve been trapped with him ever since.” Two weeks.

Stiles leaned in. “Did he hurt you? Bite you?”

The answer to both was yes, considering she’d enjoyed both she wasn’t about to tell them that, also it might make her suspicious. She shook her head, a few of her curls flying loose. “He, he said he wouldn’t do anything to me until I begged him to.” True enough once or twice, and oh, how she’d begged.

Despite her downward stare she could see Scott and Stiles exchange glances. “Lydia…” Stiles began, but she interrupted.

“Please tell me you’ve found Jordan. I,” she hiccupped. “I need to know he’s alright.” She tightened her grip on her mug. If she couldn’t have Peter she wanted Jordan. Needed him to hold her and tell her that all this deception was worth it. That it was better for everyone.

Again they exchanged glances, but it wasn’t hard to tell that they weren’t worried about her anymore. “Lydia, I’m going to take you back to the place we’re staying at alright?” Scott soothed.

“I’ll start looking for Parrish.” Stiles declared.

Relief made her tremble as she stood. “Thank you.” She grasped Scott’s arm tightly. “Both of you.”

Scott gave a soft smile. “Of course Lydia, we’re you’re friends.”

“We’ll make Dimitriou pay for what he’s done, don’t worry.”

Lydia _would_ worry, but, she reminded herself, she needed to trust that Peter and Jordan would think of something together.

She just wished she could help.

-

Jordan could _hear_ footsteps approaching the hall, it always managed to catch him off guard, these new...abilities of his. He could tell that it was only one pair, that whoever it was was heavy, and in a hurry. He practically leapt out of his seat when the door to the apartment flew open, prepared to fight off whatever intruder thought they could rob here.

Except it wasn’t a robber, it was Peter. Looking as if he was about to rain hellfire down. “What happened? Where’s Lydia?” His blood ran cold at the thought of something happening to her. He _needed_ her to be alright, he needed both of them to be.

Without saying a word Peter stalked over to him and pulled him into an embrace, burying his face in Jordan’s neck, nose pressed right up behind his ear. Jordan let him, returning the embrace and being as comforting as he could. Something bad had happened; and Jordan felt an angry heat rising in him.

Whomever had done this would _pay_.

A minute or two later Peter finally pulled away, slightly. “We’ve, we’ve been found. McCall and the others are in York. They saw Lydia and I together.”

Jordan forced himself not to panic, this might not be the worst of all situations. Peter wasn’t dead or injured and if Lydia wasn’t here then it might be safe to assume she was with Scott and Stiles. Peter’s grip tightened. “She managed to sell them a story, told them I’d followed you to York, ambushed you by the wall and knocked the both of you out, taking her with me. She told them she doesn’t know where you are, and that she’s worried about you.” Peter’s lips twitched in a smile, and Jordan had to wonder what could be good about any of that—except that _they_ were safe, if apart once more.

“She told them you both checked into a hotel, but never told them which. Gave them a lead but nothing definite.” Peter _would_ find that amusing wouldn’t he?

The other man cupped Jordan’s cheek with a hand, nails biting just enough into his scalp. “So we must part as well.” When Peter began leaning in Jordan easily bridged the gap and they kissed. A sadness welling up in Jordan at having to leave. He didn’t know when they might next see each other and be able to act as they really wanted to, instead of pretending to be enemies.

When they broke apart Jordan managed a watery smile. “I’m sure it will be an easy enough thing to check into a hotel and bribe the concierge to put in that we checked in two weeks ago.”

Peter echoed the smile. “Let me give you money enough for both. And something else, something that will help end this I hope.”

He didn’t like it but Jordan let Peter pull away, following the other man as he headed into the bedroom. Just in time to see Peter crouch down and pull something from under the bed. “Take whatever you need from my billfold.” Peter glanced back over his shoulder at him before returning his attention to the carved box.

Doing his best to calm the anxiety inside him—his people were _leaving_ him, he couldn’t keep them safe if he wasn’t there—he went over to Lydia’s vanity and pulled fifty pounds from Peter’s billfold.

“Aha.” Turning around he saw Peter stand, turn towards him and bridge the gap. “This is for you.” He held out a vial of a purple-grey dust.

Jordan turned the vial over in his hands, watching the dust slither as it moved. “What is it?”

“It’s a strain of wolfsbane, my brothers and I call it Hypnos’ Dart. Instead of killing it puts the one who consumes it into a deathlike sleep. We discovered it quite by accident soon after our transformations, Eumon ate some,” Peter’s lips twitched in a smile. “We were lucky to figure out how to wake him up, though it took us a week. If you switch out whatever wolfsbane they plan to use on me with this then it should convince our would be hunters that I’m dead.”

“Won’t they know the difference?” Jordan frowned.

Peter shook his head. “There aren’t any more of the plants growing in the wild. Some of my brothers keep cultivars of it, because it’s useful for when we grow bored of the world and decide to sleep through a century or two of it.” Peter leaned his head in, touching his forehead against Jordan’s. “It won’t kill me Jordan, I’ve taken it twice to no ill effect, some of my brothers have taken it even more than that.”

Reaching out Jordan copied Peter’s earlier gesture and cupped the other man’s cheek in his hand. Leaning his chin in he gave Peter a soft kiss before pulling away. “I believe you, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Even if it was only sleep the idea of Peter being anywhere near death made him uncomfortable.

Peter smiled. “I know, it’s why I love you.” Then he told Jordan how to wake him up.

A few minutes later, bag in hand, Jordan left the apartment and once at the street hailed a hack. Working in his mind how best to become a man desperate to see his wife.

-

Allison sat next to Lydia in the window seat of her parent’s, no _her’s_ , York townhouse. Reaching out a black gloved hand Allison touched Lydia’s forearm. “Don’t worry, Scott and Stiles will find Jordan. They found you didn’t they?” Even if it had been an accident. Allison could hope, hope that Jordan wasn’t dead and that her best friend didn’t have to suffer more than she already had.

Lydia gave her a watery smile, but didn’t say anything, her focus quickly returning to the world outside the window. Allison let her, even though she knew Lydia was probably thinking to extremes and resigning herself to the fact that Jordan was already dead—with only the possibility of a child.

Squeezing her forearm Allison let go and stood, needing to do _something_ with her hands. Those two fruitless weeks in Dover she’d fought tooth and nail for her place in this group, for the right to participate in the actual hunting; Scott may have been bitten by Dimitriou, but her whole family was _dead_ because of him. If anyone had the right to kill him it was her, and she would not let herself be denied by men.

Leaving the drawing room she went back into the kitchen. It was quieter than it should have been, she’d given most of the staff leave. No one needed them here asking questions and getting into complications they didn’t deserve. In the few days since they’d arrived the kitchen hadn’t been used once for cooking, but it still had a purpose.

Laying on the big table in the middle—covered in a few sheets so that the wolfsbane didn’t seep in and later poison the food—were crossbows. Crossbows with silver tipped bolts, soon to be dipped in a wolfsbane solution.

There had been some debate over whether to use crossbows over guns. She had been the deciding vote, pointing out that at the very least a crossbow didn’t make the racket of a gun.

Stopping in front of the table she pulled out a rag and block of beeswax, letting herself get caught up in waxing the strings.

Outwardly she might be the perfect example of mourning, but inside she hadn’t yet let herself truly give into the yawning chasm that the death of her family had opened. When Dimitriou was dead she would let herself mourn, until then she had revenge to focus on.

Which was a comfort in its own right. After all she could _do_ something about all the deaths that had occurred, not many people got that lucky.

“Allison?” She looked up in surprise to see Isaac standing on the other side of the table, somehow having entered the kitchen without her knowing. Mentally she castigated herself, letting herself get that distracted would get her killed as sure as anything.

Setting down the extra string she’d been waxing she smiled. “Sorry Isaac, I got caught up in my own thoughts. Is there something you wanted to talk about?” She knew most women, even most engaged women, would find it untoward to be alone with a man like this. Allison knew he wouldn’t try anything.

He gave a shy sort of smile and picked up one of the crossbow bolts turning it over and over in his hands. “Not really, just wondering how you were holding up. I know what it’s like to suddenly lose someone.”

The admission caught her off guard, sure Isaac would happily talk about his home state of California, and the various adventures he had gotten up to on the ranch he’d grown up on. Yet he hardly ever talked about his family.

“I’m...better than I should be,” she found herself admitting. It was the truth though. She _should_ be a wreck, but she found herself holding it together. “I think I’m worried more for Lydia than myself at the moment. She has a tendency to get wrapped up in things and not pay attention to anything outside that thing.” A good thing to have when you were researching or writing Allison’s sure, but hunting cannibalistic monsters took focus of a different sort.

“I fear she’s getting wrapped up in missing Jordan.” It was an admirable trait, devotion at its finest, but here and now, like her focus, it was not correct. Allison sighed and gave up on waxing. “Perhaps we should get food, that would certainly warm us all up.” With no staff to mind the fireplaces or stock the boiler the house kept on the chill side. Which was wonderful for when you’d just come from outside, but still felt wretched after too much time in it.

Isaac snorted. “I think walking outside would work just as well. Hotter than Hades out there.” His lips twisted as if he realized he shouldn’t have cursed in front of her, which really, she’d heard far worse from her father during hunting trips.

“For that,” she sniffed, more than willing to play offended. “You can try and roust Lydia.” She loved her best friend but didn’t want to engage with her.

Isaac huffed but doffed an imaginary hat and left the kitchen.

Leaving the kitchen herself Allison went upstairs and made herself ready to go outside. Usually, she knew, she shouldn’t be leaving the house at all. She felt as if sunshine would be the cure for everything right now.

Finished with her preparations Allison returned downstairs to the entry way. Making sure to jot a note down for Scott and Stiles so they didn’t panic when no one was in the house.

Isaac soon came from the drawing room, a listless Lydia following behind. Which amazed really, Allison had expected him to fail, Lydia could be as stubborn as a mule when the mood took her.

Together they went out, Allison gladly letting Isaac take the lead. Linking her arm with Lydia’s unresisting one.

Instead of hailing a cab Isaac just began walking down the sidewalk, not that Allison was going to protest, the sun, even under the shade of her parasol, felt lovely.

It even seemed to have an affect on Lydia, who became stiff in her movements. Through their joined arms she felt Lydia’s shoulders sag. “Allison.” She spoke, giving Allison a bit of a fright if she was honest with herself.

“Yes Lydia?” not that that meant she wouldn’t speak with her friend.

“It’s not just Jordan, it’s…” Allison looked at Lydia out of the corner of her eye, her features drawn and paler than usual. The lack of a parasol gilded her face in sunlight. Allison was sure Lydia would complain about the ensuing freckles later. “My mense came last night.”

For a second Allison frowned, not understanding what Lydia meant. Then it came to her. “Oh, Lydia…” She didn’t know what to say, only a few weeks ago Lydia had been so joyful about the idea of being with child, and now even that was taken from her.

Instead of speaking she squeezed Lydia’s arm. “Everything will be alright Lydia. Scott and Stiles will find Jordan, and then we can turn our full attention to killing the monster.” They they would all be free. Free to return to their lives, even if they were changed—she and Scott would have to push their marriage back to next year so she could complete her mourning, but she knew he would wait. “Then everything will be as it should.”

A steely look, one that frightened Allison, enter Lydia’s eye. “Yes it will be.”

-

It was their fourth day of searching for Jordan, and Scott was certain Stiles would suggest they soon give up the ghost. This day, just like the others, turning out fruitless.

Except something, somehow, caught his eye. A familiar flicker in a sea of them—which should have been _impossible_ for him to notice—making him turn. “Jordan!” He called out, relief and happiness filling his voice; he couldn’t be happier that the other man wasn’t dead if he tried.

Next to him Stiles whirled around, as if to confirm Scott’s call. Across the crowd another man turned, head nearly whipping around in surprise. Before either he or Stiles could really register that it was Jordan they were both swamped in his embrace. One strong enough that it felt like the air was being squeezed right out of Scott’s lungs.

Then Jordan let go and they could breath again. The man looked bedraggled, he obviously hadn’t shaved recently. “Oh thank God, but how? When did you arrive? Have you found Dimitriou?” Again his hands grabbed Scott, gripping tightly. “Have you found Lydia?”

“Jordan.” Stiles laid a hand on Jordan’s arm. “Calm down, take a few deep breaths and everything will be alright. Can you do that for me?” Stiles somehow managed to make his tone both jocular and soothing at the same time.

As if he realized what he was doing Jordan stepped back, closed his eyes and did indeed take a few deep breaths. When he next opened his eyes he did indeed look much calmer. “Apologies Scott, I let my emotions get the better of me.”

Scott gave a smile and reached out to squeeze Jordan’s should. “Lydia doesn’t know how lucky she is to have a husband like you Jordan.” Scott could only hope that he would be just as devoted to Allison once they were wed.

“Does that mean...did you find her?” Jordan sounded so hopeful that Scott was glad Lydia _was_ alive.

“Yes Jordan.” Stiles slapped his other shoulder companionably. “We can take you to her.”

Scott wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a man look happier.

-

Chewing her nail, a very unlady-like habit Lydia knew, she paced—another unlady-like habit. She wanted to _do_ something, go out and find Jordan herself! Tear through the quaint streets of York until it gave her her husband back. Instead she was stuck here, her friends, and the mores of society chaining her.

Blindly reaching out she picked up a hairbrush, but just as quickly she set it back down. If she threw it like she wanted to someone would come up; and right now she didn’t want to deal with anyone. It didn’t matter that this whole plot was of her own design, these past few days were excruciating; it helped, however, that her friends didn’t expect anything much from her.

A sharp pain jerked her from her thoughts and she looked down to realize that she’d bitten her thumb. She sucked on the wound absently, the small amount of blood she’d drawn still managing to fill her mouth with copper tang. The taste brought forth a whole host of memories, making desire curl in her gut.

 _What an excellent time for it_ , she thought wryly to herself, _when I can do absolutely nothing about it_. Nothing that would draw her friends to her ‘aid’ should they overhear.

Downstairs she could hear the slam of the door, Scott and Stiles must be back from yet another day of searching. Beyond that she could only tell that there were people talking, not who or of what.

She was soon distracted by the sound of footsteps on the stair, probably one of them come to tell her that they’d failed again. She’d wanted Jordan to be hard to find, not _impossible_. Yet it made her feel fond. Coming closer to her down the hall, before stopping before her door—taking a moment to figure out how to break the news once more. Instead of knocking the door just opened, and there, and there was Jordan.

She didn’t think, just let out a cry of happiness and flung herself into his arms, propriety be damned. Barely a second later they were kissing, and it felt more like coming home than anything she’d ever experienced. They broke apart sooner than she’d like, but that didn’t stop warmth filling her when Jordan leaned his forehead against hers. “Gods Lydia, I missed you.”

Instead of replying she kissed him again, moaning softly when she felt him move the both of them, her back hitting a wall. She didn’t even care that it felt like they were trying to devour each other, it was exactly what she needed. He hoisted her up slightly and she _swore_ she could feel the hot press of him, even through countless layers of fabric. To be fair the whole heat of him made her sigh and relax, she didn’t feel _cold_ anymore.

“Oh God, sorry!” Stiles’ voice broke them apart, even if his tone was shocked and embarrassed it still made hot anger flash in her, a soft growl escaping.

Jordan chuckled against her lips, before turning his head slightly and kissing her temple. “It’s alright. We’re together again Lydia.” Yes, but still short of what they both wanted. Soon, she hoped, that wouldn’t be the case. He set her back down and helped her straighten her dress. “Is there something you wanted Stiles?” Jordan asked, Lydia wasn’t sure she could speak and not try to bite his head off for interrupting. What did Stiles think he was going to find? Them talking?

Stiles was still flush and really you’d think he’d never kissed anyone. “Ah, Deaton wanted us all to meet in the kitchen, he says that we should plan our final attack.”

Like that any thoughts of passion left Lydia, reaching out she laced her hand through Jordan’s and squeezed. He squeezed back, then raised their joined hands and kissed the back of hers. “Alright,” Jordan said. “We’ll be down in a minute.” By the time she could hear Stiles going down the stairs Jordan had turned to her, expression serious. “Peter has a plan, we just need to make sure their plan fits it.”

“We can do it,” she assured him; even if she was half thinking they couldn’t. “We’re almost through it,” certainty filled her voice, just as a strange dissonance filled her chest.

Jordan gave a tight smile and squeezed her hand again, whispering softly about what Peter wanted as they went down to the kitchen.

-

Stiles felt certain his heart was going to beat out of his chest, it was finally happening, Dimitriou would die, once and for all. They could rest easy knowing that the monster who was stalking them was dead.

Then again part of his...current state could be because of how he’d caught Lydia and Jordan. That, he hadn’t thought husbands and wives could _do_ that to each other. They’d been acting as if kissing was the only thing keeping the both of them alive, and it had been disconcerting in a way. Love, that he expected, but how did passion play into love?

He shook his head as Lydia and Jordan entered the kitchen; it wasn’t important right now, nor was it really ever. Which didn’t mean he _wouldn’t_ think about it, but he still needed to put it aside for the time being.

Deaton looked over their assembled bunch, and Stiles wondered what he saw. Everyone’s faces were serious, they had to be just as driven as Stiles was to see this finished and done. He wanted his _life_ back damn it. If that was what _he_ wanted he couldn’t imagine how Allison or Jordan felt.

“This will not be easy,” Deaton finally spoke. “Some of us may die in the attempt. But we _will_ succeed.” Reaching under the main table he pulled out a carved box and after setting it down opened it pulling out a vial of an almost sky blue powder, a wolfsbane of some sort Stiles was sure. “This is Northern Blue, the deadliest wolfsbane known. After we’ve lured the beast to our chosen location we will shoot him with this, his death will come quickly.” Which Stiles didn’t think he deserved really. That...monster needed to suffer.

Scott drew himself up, as if that was a cue he had been waiting for; he pulled out a map from his pocket and unfolded it. “Here’s where we’ll take him down.” He pointed at a small park next to the River Ouse. “This is how we’ll lure him in…”

-

It was nearing two AM and the streets of York were eerily quiet as Jordan and Lydia stepped out into them. They both wore dark clothing—Lydia in fact wore some of his trousers, even if it was indecent—as they stole out into the stables behind the Argent house.

Silently they saddled one of the more placid looking horses—although to Jordan it hardly looked awake in the first place—Lydia helping when Jordan had no idea what to do. He helped her mount then climbed up behind her, noticing easily her squirm. “Lydia?” He asked softly, hoping it was something easily rectified.

“I’ve never ridden a horse this way, it’s...ah, different.” Jordan could feel his ears flush a little at her implication.

“You’ll enjoy the ride then,” he teased as he guided the horse slowly out onto the cobbled path that led to the street.

Her huff of laughter as he urged the horse into a light trot made him smile.

The sound of the horse’s hooves seemed to both be echoed and muffled by the fog that had come in off the river. In silence again they rode for a brief time, seeing no people, and only a few stray dogs. It was almost peaceful actually.

Eventually however he pulled the horse to a stop and Lydia reached out for his belt, drawing the knife he’d strapped there. Pulling back her sleeve she dug the blade into the back of her forearm, drawing blood. Flicking the blade out she splattered some of the blood onto the street. Laying the first spot on the trail that would lead to Peter’s death.

The restless fire in him didn’t like it, _how_ could he be thinking of doing this? Leading Peter to his doom? It didn’t seem to understand that this was how it needed to be if they wanted to have true freedom.

He prayed no one noticed that he’d washed and recoated all of the bolts with the wolfsbane Peter had given him.

About three stops into their meandering trail, Deaton had suggested they make it look haphazard so as not to raise Peter’s suspicions, they both dismounted. Jordan taking the knife from Lydia and pricking his own thumb, smearing some of his blood quickly onto a piece of paper and tucking it slightly out of the way. Peter was sure to notice it and then he wouldn’t be walking into the ambush blind.

Remounting they continued. Riding on towards the park that Scott had chosen.

The sounds of the Ouse grew louder, and the gas lights grew more bunched up as they entered what in the day time must have been a prosperous shopping area. Above it all loomed the ruins of the wall and the Minster.

When they reached the park Jordan helped Lydia bandage her wound—his had already healed, but hers would take a little longer—then they went and joined Allison and Isaac.

“Your early,” Isaac murmured quietly as he handed Jordan a crossbow.

Taking it Jordan checked it over, in his head going over the brief list Allison had instructed them all with earlier. It all seemed in order and he accepted the packet of three bolts from Allison.

“I didn’t know there was a timetable,” Lydia answered tartly as she settled back. When they had been planning she had firmly refused to wield any sort of weapon, against a nearby tree. Seeing her shiver he shrugged off his jacket—he felt warm enough without it—and went over to drape it on her shoulders. Giving a grateful smile she pulled it close around her, burying her face briefly in the shoulder.

Jordan settled back down and nestled the crossbow rest against his shoulder, testing the rudimentary sight—even with the fog the moon still hung bright above them—and making sure he was looking at the right spot. “Everything else ready?”

“Yes,” Allison replied, her eyes scanning the park through the underbrush they were hidden in. “Lydia, you should get back out there.” Just like Isaac she held herself almost perfectly still.

Despite already knowing it was going to happen Jordan still stiffened. Lydia might have agreed she was the best bait—and he knew Peter wouldn’t hurt her—but that didn’t mean he wanted her to get caught up in the crossfire. He didn’t know how she would react to wolfsbane poisoning if there was a stray shot.

Behind him Lydia gave a soft sigh, and he could hear her rustling as she stood up. Seconds later his coat was back on his own shoulders, and he repeated her earlier gesture—despite having only worn it for a brief time it still smelled of her. She soon entered his line of sight as she left their hiding spot and entered the park proper, unwinding the bandage as she went.

With Peter’s help Jordan had been learning to utilize his senses and as he sniffed he could smell the faint amounts of blood coming from her arm, as well as from her estrus—a realization that made him flush briefly then grow curious—both, Jordan was certain, would draw Peter in.

Then came the intolerable waiting, they knew that if the plan didn’t work tonight they’d have to do it again and again until it worked. Jordan hoped it would all be over and done with tonight. The sooner this was done the better he would feel. He strained his hearing as far as it could go, far enough that he could hear Scott, Stiles and Deaton moving around in the trees across the way. Could hear the hiss of the gas and growing closer the padding of large paws on the street behind them.

Without meaning to his shoulders tensed, a growing sense of anticipation filling him as the sound grew closer. He could tell it was Peter, in his wolf form no less. In a way that felt better to Jordan, even if it was another part of his lover.

After a few more moments Jordan felt like he could finally tell Allison and Isaac. “He’s here,” it came out a bare whisper.

Isaac and Allison only nodded and out of the corner of his eye he saw Allison pull out a small hand mirror and flash it in the direction of the others.

Lydia limed in the moonlight was beautiful. He could only imagine what she would look like with her hair streaming around her and wearing something far more feminine than currently. He shook the thought from his mind, while it was lovely indeed he couldn’t exactly think on it. He needed to make a good show of doing the task he’d been given.

Soon enough even Isaac and Allison were able to hear the sounds of Peter’s approach; the dull thud as he picked up speed and began running.

Almost like magic he was in the park, catching even Jordan off guard.

His form was dark, but not of the right sort to blend into the night, now that they could see him he was easy enough to track. Seemingly without thought Peter bounded across the open green—and it hurt a little, to see Peter playing such a fool—towards Lydia.

Under her breath Allison began to count, and well if Jordan could hear it than what was to stop Peter? Not that Jordan or Lydia had seen fit to inform the others of that when they had been making this plan. She reached twenty and her crossbow gave a thunk-hiss as she fired. The silver bolt glimmered in the moonlight as it flew, soon joined by one from the other group, then Isaac's, than another from the other side, then Jordan, and again. Six bolts, all flying towards one spot.

Even if he didn’t like it there was a sort of beauty to their nearly flawless timing. Peter reached a meter out from Lydia and the bolts hit, caching him in the haunches and neck—except for Jordan’s which clipped his tail.

In a flash Allison was upright, firing again. This time hitting Peter’s neck up higher and Jordan had to hold back a flinch.

Jordan was the next up, throwing his own crossbow aside he ran to Lydia, scooping her up and using it to hide his glance at Peter.

The wolf shuddered, and as he watched shifted back into his human shape. The sight of which made Jordan tremble in suppressed anger. In his arms Lydia dug her nails into his shoulder, keeping him from doing anything foolish. A fact he was both grateful and annoyed over. The others trailed after him, all eyes on Peter.

Peter shuddered and gasped, putting on a good show of ‘dying’, his eyes flickered quickly between blue and red as he stared at Jordan and Lydia. A shaking hand reached out towards them, and it almost looked as if Peter felt real anger. “I...would have...given you the...world,” the words were sharp and short. Clearly taking a lot out of Peter, his hand feel limp and he collapsed to the ground.

“Is he dead?” Scott’s question broke the spell and Jordan found himself biting back a snarl.

Deaton took a step closer and prodded Peter with his crossbow. “Near enough I believe. Stiles do you have the stake?”

This was the part Jordan was most worried about, setting Lydia down as Isaac and Scott rolled Peter onto his back. He stepped closer as Stiles pulled out the silver stake he had somehow acquired.

There had been a great debate earlier over who would do the honors and Jordan had fought tooth and nail to be the one who did it. Painting broad strokes of guilt over being the reason all of this had happened, wanting to avenge Lydia’s honor, the sorts of things he hoped would convince the others.

All had bowed to his wish except Allison, who still glared at him as he took the stake and hammer and went to kneel over Peter.

“You won’t be able to hit the sternum hard enough to break it,” Stiles reminded him patiently, not that Jordan cared. “Go in at an angle, the stake’s long enough to pierce his heart that way too.”

If Jordan focused hard enough he could hear and see Peter still breathing, if barely, his heart beating slowly. The only signs that he was sleeping and not dead. Angling the stake at what should at least look like the right angle Jordan raised the hammer.

 _Please forgive me_ , he thought as he brought the hammer down.

Peter’s body jerked as the stake went in, but Jordan could still hear his heart beating.

Lydia screamed.

-

Lydia’s eyelids felt as if they were heavier than the earth. The rest of her didn’t feel much better, not even her mind full of cotton and fog. After a few eons and more effort than should be required she opened her eyes. Her eyelids slamming shut at the seemingly bright light that filled them.

She managed a soft groan, hoping it would be enough to tell _someone_ that she was awake. She remembered seeing the stake go into Peter, then nothing. A shiver passed through her.

“Hey.” it was Allison’s voice, Lydia guessed it could be worse.

Open her eyes again she squinted in what looked like the early morning light. “What?” She croaked, She felt like a desert, and felt grateful when Allison’s shadowy form came close and she felt glass press against her lips.

The water felt like manna from heaven. “Stiles had to drug you Lydia,” Allison sounded bad about it. “You wouldn’t stop screaming after Dimitriou died, we were afraid that you might draw unwanted attention, so Deaton and Stiles doused you with laudnum.”

No wonder she felt this way. “Jordan?” She asked after taking one more sip.

“I’ll go get him.” Allison took the glass away and Lydia closed her eyes again, listening to her best friend walk out the room and close the door softly behind her.

She must have fallen into a light doze, because the next thing she recalled was wonderfully warm hands taking one of her own, the heat seeping into her. The light wasn’t so bad this time when she opened her eyes the third time, but she still felt drowsy and hated every moment of it. “What happened?” She knew what Allison told her about herself, she didn’t care about that—except that she wasn’t happy about it—she was asking after Peter now.

Despite how drowsy and detached she felt from herself she felt Jordan shift her over, his body joining her and curling around her. She could feel his breath against her neck. “The horse wasn’t too happy about bearing him, but we managed and took him to York cemetery as planned. The body was placed in the Rowan coffin Scott had stashed away there earlier. Allison and Deaton brought you back to the Argent house. Which was only a few hours ago.”

Again she closed her eyes, letting herself breath and try to regain control of her body. She hadn’t been drugged too much, if she’d only been out for that short amount of time. She hated that it had to happen at all.

“Why did you scream Lydia?” Jordan’s question echoed the one in her own thoughts.

“I...don’t...know,” she managed to answer. “Don’t remember it...at all.” She desperately wanted to, yet no matter how much she replayed those events nothing new shook itself loose, no new memory presented itself.

Jordan’s lips pressed themselves against her cheek. “It’s done. Rest now, if everything works out we’ll get him back tonight, after everyone’s asleep.”

It felt like lifting a building, nodding; but she managed, hating how easy it was to slide back into sleep.

-

The dark was no stranger to Peter, and they hadn’t buried him so breathing wasn’t a problem.

The stake in his chest wasn’t enjoyable, his healing oh so slowly ejecting it from his body. He would much prefer to just yank it out and be done with it, but he didn’t exactly have the space. Kicking off the lid of the coffin might draw attention that he very much didn’t want. No need to start a rumor of the dead coming back to life. Instead he closed his eyes, not that it mattered either way, and focused on keeping himself calm. Jordan and Lydia would be along in due time and then he could leave England and never return. Although he had thought he’d still be asleep for all of this.

Lydia’s scream had been as inescapable as a horn being blown right in his ear. He’d had to fight through the pain to not react in any fashion, it was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do in his life. Why had she woken him up? What purpose did it serve other than to make him suffer through pain and boredom?

Those questions, among others, circled over and over in his mind. Only broken by the occasion prayer for good luck he sent up.

Eventually the sound of footsteps reached his ears, Jordan and Lydia’s footsteps. He embraced the sweet relief that filled him at the sound.

Soon enough the lid of the coffin was off and he gritted his teeth as he felt Jordan yank the stake out. His eyes did fly open however, the light from their lantern glaring after so much dark, and he bit back a snarl.

After a few moments, during which his healing sealed the wound completely, he pulled himself upright, ignoring his pride and letting Jordan help him up and out. Together they hobbled to the opposite wall, which Peter slumped against, his body sinking to the floor. Lydia was by his side offering him a drink of water.

Eyes adjusted now he watched as Jordan put the lid back on the coffin and began hammering in the nails once more. The smell of food caught his attention and he turned his head to see Lydia offering him a simple sandwich. “You should eat.” He wouldn’t argue against her.

He felt almost normal by the time all the food she’d brought for him had been devoured he felt more like himself. He took another swig of water from the bottle she’d handed him. “Why didn’t you wait to scream Lydia?” He had to know.

Even in the dim light he could see her cheeks flush and he eyes darted away. “I, I don’t know Peter.” She sounded in agony over it and it was an even better proof of her truthfulness to him than the steadiness of her heart. “I don’t remember anything after Jordan driving the stake into you. I don’t think I had any sort of control over myself.”

Reaching out he grasped her chin and turned her back to look at him. “I understand. Perhaps it has to do with what you are.” It would give them someplace to start.

The hammering stopped and Jordan crouched to join them. “We should be heading back Lydia,” his tone was apologetic and even Peter found himself frustrated by what was necessary.

Leaning in he kissed Lydia, then Jordan. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore. I’m going to change into some decent clothes, then buying the first ticket I can to New York.” There was something vaguely amusing about going from one York to another. “I will meet you both on the docks in a month.”

Their scents clearly told them how much they didn’t like the forced separation. Biting back a smile he kissed them both again; then led them out into the cemetery. The night was almost peaceful as they walked out, Jordan relocking the gates as they stepped out into streets.

Peter stood there and watched the two of them vanish into the night before making his own way back to the flat he’d been renting.

After thousands of years of waiting a month would felt like forever and yet no time at all.


	23. Interlude XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be on the safe side a minor warning for some period typical racism.

_Dearest Allison,_

_I know you are not happy at my and Jordan leaving England, especially so soon after Dimitriou's defeat. But I know you will appreciate honesty above all else, so I shall give it to you._

_England no longer feels like home. Against all my hopes and wishes my sweet memories of it have been tainted, I can no longer look upon the streets of London, or York for that matter, and see happiness. I know there is no comparison, but he only killed your family; to us for a time Dimitriou was a true friend._

_Do not pull such a long face dear, the wrinkles will do you no good.  We shall come back to visit I’m sure, for your wedding at the very least._

_Here in America however things feel…_ new _. We have traded life in a big city for a small town—we will have to get used to a lack of gas, although there is at least running water—on the Hudson River. The valley here is beautiful, and I hope one day you may come and see it for yourself._

 _Our neighbors seem like good folk. Do not think ill of me dear Allison, but when they warned us of wolves we laughed heartily much to their confusion. Our nearest neighbors are three brothers, Derek, Daniel, and Peter Hale—he was understanding enough that he did not comment on my stumbling upon introducing himself, but I cannot let myself be cowed by a_ name. _I do not quite yet know what they grow on the farm they own, however Derek’s wife Braeden has been a great help in setting up my own household—she is also apparently a great hunter according to her husband._

_On our other side is another married couple, Vernon and Erica Boyd. Vernon is an ox of a negro, yet as kind as could ever be and intelligent as well. Erica reminds me much of Stiles in her words._

_Perhaps in other letters I will tell you of the rest of our little town, but for now our immediate neighbors will suffice. I hope that you have forgiven me Allison, and know that I will still gladly advise you on anything you may wish to know, you need only send word and I will answer._

_Your Friend Eternal,_

_Lydia Parrish_

_-_

_November 6th, 1893_

_Dear Stiles,_

_As you must already know from the papers of England, and perhaps even all of the world by now. A monster stalked the gleaming halls of the World’s Columbian Exposition. You have most likely heard him referred to by the name H.H. Holmes, or perhaps even Herman Mudgett._

_Both of those names, of course, are lies._

_No, you and I, and the others, know his real name, Jackson Whittemore._

_It had shocked me too to realize that fact, that he didn’t die after your capturing of him. That he somehow escaped and made his way to America, where he has conned and killed countless people._

_Yet it is the truth._

_One we might never have discovered if not for our own trip to see the Exposition. We happened to see him by chance one evening as we were out walking. Since then we have hunted him down and dealt with him in the same way we had dealt with Dimitriou. His dark shadow is no more, thank God._

_I am sorry we did not contact you earlier and let you know, but time was of the essence and we did not want him to escape a second time. It would have been good to hunt with you once more and take the beast down together. Although it may comfort you to know we were not alone in this hunt of ours, three of the four Hales—Daniel had decided to stay behind and mind the farm—had joined us, and had eagerly helped us see him well and truly dead this time._

_I hope things in England are less exciting for you than they have been for us here in America, and hope that all is going well._

_Sincerely,_

_Jordan Parrish_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're down to the last part folks, see you next week.


	24. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are folks, the end. It's certainly been a fun ride for me and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.

_One hundred years later..._

Allison—who prefered to be called Alice because she thought it was more mysterious—McCall crouched, managing to tuck her black skirt under her knees one handed, in front of the gravestones of her great-grandparents and laid down the dark red roses she’d managed to buy with her allowance.

It was the perfect autumn day, overcast and gloomy, with a chill in the air and the promise of rain.

“Hey GGs.” She’d never actually known them, they’d died a year before and a year after her birth respectively, but she visited them as often as she could. She like the ambiance of the little cemetery they’d been buried at. Anyways, they were the heroes of her favorite bedtime story, what was not to like?

“Lucas dumped me, but he was a tosser anyways,” she blinked back tears. “Said I was too gloomy, that I didn’t know how to have fun.” Annoyance flashed across her face. “Lucy says we should go catch snakes and put them in his bed, see how ‘fun’ he finds that. Beth says he dumped me because I wouldn’t put out, but that that meant he’s even more of a tosser.” Her friends really were the best.

She opened her mouth to continue when she heard footsteps approaching. While she knew it wasn’t unusual for people to talk to the dead, she doubted they bitched about asshole exes and movies.

Turning her head she gaped to see the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen in her life, seeming to come straight towards her. She was in an elegant little black dress, with matching black gloves and grey pumps. Her red hair was pulled up and away from her face, though a few curls had ‘escaped’ to frame her face. She wore huge sunglasses that should have made her look like some 60's reject, but instead reminded Alice of Audrey Hepburn, and she gave a little sigh. In the woman’s left hand was a bouquet of pale yellow roses and a small black clutch.

Alice knew the woman would pass by, probably on her way to one of the tiny mausoleums near the back wall. She certainly looked rich enough. The shock she felt as the woman came down the same path Alice had not five minutes earlier and stopped only a few inches away felt richly deserved.

“Hello.” The woman sounded American, her accent almost, but not quite, like the ones Alice heard in movies. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Alice stood quickly, hoping there weren’t any grass stains on her own black clothes. “N-no.” Her cheeks pinkened at the slight stutter. “I was just visiting my great-grandparents. I’m Alice.” She stuck her hand out, wanting to shake hands with this angel of a woman.

A smile danced across the woman’s red lips as she shook Alice’s hand—it was a surprisingly firm shake—“I’m Lydia. I came into town to finish a deal and I thought I’d finally visit the infamous McCalls.”

Eyes wide, Alice gaped at her. “You’re a Parrish!” She vaguely remembered the story of their exploits had the Parrishes moving to America after they’d help kill Dimitriou; but she never thought she’d _meet_ one.

Lydia gave her a real smile in response. “Guilty as charged, though my branch of the family hasn’t had the Parrish surname for a while now.” With stunning grace she took off her sunglasses, revealing the most elegant hazel eyes Alice had ever seen. Just as gracefully she knelt and placed her roses down.

As she rose she opened her clutch and took out a business card, holding it out to Alice. “I’d love to talk more and catch up, sadly I’ve got a meeting soon but just give me a ring whenever you’ve the time.”

Alice took the card. Out of habit kissed one of the corners, leaving a small smudge of black lipstick on the cream cardstock.

“That was unusual.”

Ears burning red, Alice couldn’t look Lydia in the eye. “My friend Beth says it’s good luck.” Beth kissed all the cards she got, she even kissed the corners of her tarot cards whenever she did a reading.

Lydia’s smile was kind. “I’ll have to keep it in mind then.”

Relieved that Lydia didn’t think she was _too_ weird Alice actually looked at the card. On the side facing her it read:

_Lydia Hale_

_Fashion, Proprietor_

In silver gilt lettering, then listed her phone number. Alice flipped the card over and saw the familiar image of the Uffington horse, done in gold instead of white. Under it it read:

_DM: White Horse Catacombs_

_“Time to work, time to play, time to dance the Macabray.”_

 

With an address in Camden Town.

Alice looked up sharply at Lydia.

“Oh I know, a high class joint in amongst all the punks?” She gave a mysterious smile. “You should see the space Alice, it’s _wonderful_.”

Sparks of faint pleasure curled in Alice, she knew it wasn’t sexual, just pleasure at being giving attention from such a beautiful person. “What’s the ‘DM’ stand for?”

“Danse Macabre,” Lydia replied. “It’s the name of the first club I opened in LA. When I was invited to open a second in New York Petey, my husband at the moment, suggested I keep the name, but add a subtitle too. A year later we opened Danse Macabre: Death Coach. Now I’m opening another in London.”

Half dazzled by the woman’s explanation all Alice could do was nod.

“I insist you come and visit, just show the card to the doorman and he’ll let you right in. You could bring your friends too.”

Alice was flabbergasted. “Really?” This _totally_ made up for all the bad shit she’d felt had been happening in her life. Maybe Beth was right to kiss her cards, if this is the sort of thing it brought about.

Lydia gave another true smile. “I think you’d fit right in.” Before she could say anything more the sound of a car horn interrupted them, causing them both to turn.

There on the street was the most beautiful car Alice had ever seen; it was all in black and silver and looked like it belonged on a showroom floor. In it Alice could just make out two dark haired men in suits. A soft, but affectionate, sigh left Lydia. “There’s the hubby right now.” Then Lydia shocked Alice again by stepping up to her and giving her a bise, before pulling away and heading back down the path. “Don’t forget to call dear!” She called out before stepping up to the car.

One of the men in the car must have said something because Alice could hear Lydia laugh. Alice watched as Lydia climbed into the car and settled herself onto the lap of the man in the passenger seat. _Must be her husband_ , Alice thought as she watched them drive off. “Werewolves of London” coming from the car’s radio as they tore out into the street and away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I don't have any 'big' Pydian projects planned, keep your eyes out for a few one shots here and there. (I'm in the midst of a new fandom right now and writing for it's OT3 is my main focus RN)


End file.
